


Cadence of the Rain

by ReginaCorda



Series: Dusk of Summer [2]
Category: Fleurmione - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/F, Fluff, Lesbian, Little Bit of Everything, Order of the Phoenix - Freeform, Porn with plot and feelings, Pure, SMUT!, Sex is on chapters 12 and 14, Sexy Times, Smut, Unadulturated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 110,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1496125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReginaCorda/pseuds/ReginaCorda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Dusk of Summer. A continuation of Fleur and Hermione's adventure taking place during the Order of the Phoenix. Our heroine's relationship reaches new levels and faces new perils, obstacles, and a few very hard, very unfortunate decisions. (I lied earlier, sorry. The Half-Blood Prince and the Deathly Hallows will be featured in the next sequel, Thy Kingdom Come.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home Again

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, faithful readers! I hope you enjoyed Dusk of Summer and I hope you will enjoy its sister. As I suspect you noticed, I labeled this fic as Explicit, and it will be. Very much so. I promise. And there will be multiple scenes. But, for those of you who may not want to read a sexual fic, I will give warnings before the chapters in which the romance takes place. I also labeled it as 'Underage,' simply because Hermione will be sixteen instead of seventeen when they take their relationship to the next level. I checked with the laws, and sixteen is the age of consent, but I thought I'd label it as such anyway, just in case. As usual, thank you to everyone who has stuck with me thus far, and the new readers I’ve lured in with the ‘Explicit’ tag, as well as the author who first inspired me to begin writing this series in the first place, Whistle the Silver will forever head the list of my favorite Fleurmione authors. Updates may vary, due to the fact that I spent nearly two years writing Dusk before I ever posted the first chapter. This fic will cover the fifth year of the original series, so I’ll be condensing as much as I can without skipping out on any important details. With that taken into consideration, let us continue into Hermione’s fifth year at Hogwarts and the trials that come with it.  
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter books, movies, or characters, much to my immense dismay. That privilege and honor belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Bros, neither of which do I hold any personal affiliation other than adoration. I just play around and make happen what I believe should have been. I will also borrow excerpts and mirror some styles from great poets and writers. It is to be noted that these excerpts will be cited after a chapter in which the excerpt is used and that I have only the utmost respect and gratitude for these brilliant gifts bestowed to the public by those talented scribes.

Hermione drew a deep breath and released it, happy to be home, but loneliness had become a seemingly permanent tenant in her heart. She wandered the corridors of Hogwarts aimlessly, her eyes glassy in remembrance. She half-expected her blonde Veela to round the corner with a big smile on her face, but around every turn, there was no one other than her own fellow classmates. She stopped by her quarters in the Gryffindor Tower, the same one she had the previous year, and left her things there, heading back down the stairs for a long bath in the Prefect’s Bathroom. The tub was long, and very deep, the water loosened the knots in her muscles and the scented oils she’d added rose with the steam, clouding her senses as she allowed herself to sink lower into the water.

With one hand, she massaged her shoulder, while the other toyed with the bubbles in contemplation. She soon switched hands and shoulders, thinking of how nice it would be to feel Fleur’s hands rubbing the tension from her body instead. A blush reddened her cheeks as the thought of other methods the blonde could use, but quickly shook them off. Their ritual had not yet been completed, but thoughts of doing so increasingly distracted her conscious, and unconscious mind. _You’ve only been here a few hours, Granger,_ she chided herself, _Think of other things._

The feast and the show put on there was certainly something to think about. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was a piece of work indeed. A Ministry official, Professor Dolores Umbridge seemed to think of herself as if she had been born on a very high and mighty pedestal, she even had the audacity to interrupt Dumbledore in his Start of Term speech, speaking to the student body as if they all were five years old. Hermione herself was close to turning sixteen, and after achieving so much with a dutifully practiced intellect, she was offended by the witch’s language and barely-concealed belief that they all were in fact over-grown children.

A grimace marred her features as she recalled the whole of her speech. The memories of it made her wash her hair quickly, and withdraw from her bath, as she no longer wished to relax, but to think. She wrapped a towel tightly about her body and sat down on a step leading to the enormous tub. The Ministry was interfering with Hogwarts. That was certain. As she dried her hair, she noticed the muscles in her shoulders were tensing again.

_They’ll have to get used to it,_ she thought. _This year, it seems promising that I’ll have much more to deal with, even if it’s not a bloody Tournament._ With a sigh, she dressed again, and returned to her room. There, she wrote a letter to Fleur, telling her of the strange happening earlier that evening, and how dearly she already missed her. She had yet to cry again, for the simple matter of pride, but now as she sit alone, she longed for the arms that had held her all throughout the summer.

Carefully, she folded the letter, and by chance, an owl found her window to perch upon. She called the bird in, and sent him on his way to Fleur, burdened with her letter. Silently, she closed the window, and crawled beneath her blankets. There, she drew deep breaths, breathing in Fleur’s scent from the night shirt she wore, one the blonde had not yet learned that she had taken. It was Fleur’s favorite, and even though Hermione felt a pang of guilt stab at her for taking it, she was grateful that she had for the comfort it gave her. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, her bed much cooler than it had been than when the Veela had slept there with her. Gingerly, she gripped at the golden feather hanging round her neck.  She drew a deep breath, and released it heavily.

From beneath her pillow, she pulled a photograph Fleur had taken during their time at the Delacour estate. The blonde smiled up at her from the picture, then turned to kiss the brunette at her side. Hermione was almost jealous of the image of herself, how that self would never be without Fleur. Banishing the thought, she reached to her desk, retrieving other pictures. Fleur had taken her camera everywhere they went, and as a result, Hermione had plenty of memories to leaf though and eventually pin on her walls. One she lifted now was Shamin and the young dragons crowding around him, the same fearless female actually pouncing on Fleur, climbing up her shoulder and looking directly into the lens. She smiled at the photo, and lifted another. This one, another person had to have taken, and by the looks of the odd angle, it had been Gabrielle. They were riding their horses, Fleur perched gracefully on her prized black mare, bareback of course, while Hermione chased after her astride the lean buckskin.

It had taken days for the Gryffindor to get used to horseback riding, her legs so sore she could hardly walk the next morning, but Fleur was understanding and gentle. She prepared a lotion infused with herbs to help with the pain, and during this time, the two spent their afternoons on their backs in the sun, or browsing the streets of France, or tending to the horses instead of riding them. By the end of the summer, she’d become a skilled rider, and already found herself longing to ride again. She flipped to the next photo, seeing that it was a group picture of everyone who’d stayed in Number Twelve, Mrs. Weasley’s red hair was wild above her broad smile. She had one arm around Hermione, Harry and Ron, the other secured around Mr. Weasley, who, in turn, had one arm wrapped around the twins and Ginny; Sirius, Lupin, Tonks and Mad-Eye even joined the picture, too, although Moody’s face was the only one that didn’t smile.

Hermione sighed again, and replaced the photos, borrowing deeper into her blankets. Sleep found her reluctantly, but did not give her dreams. She found herself dreading the morrow, for with it would bring a more personal introduction of Professor Umbridge, one which Hermione was unwilling to hasten.

 

* * *

 

Hermione’s day dragged on as it was dubbed by Ron to be the worst Monday he’d ever seen. The young witch had to hold back a sigh but managed to nod in agreement. Their double period of Potions left Harry in a very sour mood, and Hermione’s bickering with Ron surly wasn’t helping him at all. Of course, they were hardly worse than usual, but with everyone avoiding him like the plague, she could hardly blame him. Hermione left lunch early, but arrived at the trapdoor below the North Tower after Harry had already went inside for Divination, too late to offer an apology. She turned and hurried to her next class, which dragged on just as slowly as History of Magic had. Finally, she made her way to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

She took a seat on Harry’s right, her brows knit together in thought. Before they could exchange a word or offer apology, Professor Umbridge bid the class good afternoon. A few students murmured back.

“Oh, that won’t do. I should like you, please, to reply ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.” The class echoed back.

“There, now,” said Professor Umbridge. “That wasn’t too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed and her chest constricted as she held back a sigh, but instead of placing her wand in her bag, she left it her robes where it sat snug and ready. Other students exchanged glances between one another as they replaced their wands within their bags again. Begrudgingly, the lioness retrieved a sheet of parchment, her favorite quill and an inkpot. Professor Umbridge raised her own wand, a surprisingly short one, and tapped the blackboard sharply.

_Defense Against the Dark Arts_

_A Return to Basic Principles_

“Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn’t it?” stated Professor Umbridge as she turned to face the students, hands clasped neatly in front of her. “The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year.

“You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now being rectified. We will be following a closely a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please.” She tapped the blackboard again; the first message vanished and was replaced by:

_Course aims:_

_1\. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic._

_2\. Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used._

_3\. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use._

For several minutes, the room was silent save for the scratching of quills. When everyone had finished, Professor Umbridge asked, “Has everyone got a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard?”

Again, there was a soft murmuring of consent. Again, Professor Umbridge coaxed them into repeating their answer clearly and in unison.

“Good,” She said, satisfied. “I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, ‘Basics for Beginners.’ There will be no need to talk.”

Professor Umbridge left the blackboard and settled herself in the chair behind the teacher’s desk, observing them all with small, glittering toad-like eyes. The students bent their heads down to their books, their eyes already glassy. Hermione did not spare a glance to her book. She stared at the professor unblinkingly with one hand raised, and when Harry nudged her gently, she gave one shake of her head. As the seconds ticked by, other students abandoned their books as well, watching the young witch.

When more than half the class had trained their attention on the Gryffindor, Professor Umbridge seemed to decide that she could no longer ignore the situation.

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?” She asked Hermione, as though she’d just noticed her.

“Not about the chapter, no,” Hermione returned, lowering her hand.

“Well, we’re reading just now,” the professor said, displaying very pointed teeth in what looked to be an attempt at a smile. “If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class.”

“I’ve got a query about your course aims,” She said instead, her chin lifting a fraction of a centimeter. Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows.

“And your name is—?”

 “Hermione Granger,” A flash a recognition crossed the other woman’s face. Her raised eyebrows drew downwards again, sending her dark eyes further into their shadow.

“Ah, Miss Granger. I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read through them carefully,” her voice was coated in a sickly saccharine tone.

“Well, they’re not,” Hermione said bluntly, “There’s nothing written up there about _using_ defensive spells.”

Other students squinted at the three course aims on their papers.

“ _Using_ defensive spells?” Professor Umbridge repeated with a mocking laugh. “I can’t imagine any time or situation arising in my classroom in which would require you to _use_ a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren’t expected to be attacked during class?”

“We’re not going to use magic?” Ron exclaimed loudly.

“Students raise their hands in my classroom!” Umbridge nearly barked.

Hermione and Harry raised their hands at once. For a moment, her eyes lingered on Harry before shifting back to Hermione.

“You wanted to ask something else, Miss Granger?”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “Surely the whole point of _Defense Against the Dark Arts_ is to teach students how to defend themselves against Dark arts.” Hermione bit, her chin lifting higher on its own accord.

“Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?”

“No, however, I’m one hundred percent sure no Auror was taught by book and without practice.” She spoke quickly, giving Umbridge no allowance to interrupt her.

She pretended as though she hadn’t heard any word other than ‘no.’ “Well then, I’m afraid you’re not qualified to decide what ‘the whole point’ of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You’ll be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—”

“What good is that?” Harry interjected loudly. “If we’re going to be attacked it won’t be in a bloody—”

“ _Hand, Mr. Potter!”_ sang Umbridge.

Harry thrust his fist into the air, which was promptly ignored by the toad in the pink cardigan.

“I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school,” she said, an unconvincing smile stretching across her face, as if she’d just laid her eye on a juicy fly. “But you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, not to mention,” she gave a laugh, purposefully glancing at Hermione. “Extremely dangerous _half-breeds._ ”

“If it is Professor Lupin you are referring to,” Hermione snarled, rising from her seat, her lip curling. “He was _the only_ teacher stable enough to teach us anything, never mind the fact he became something _he did not wish to become._ If that little glance at me was about Fleur, she’s _quarter-Veela_ , and I’m a God-forsaken, lesbian, Mudblood!” Her voice had risen so loudly, Umbridge could no longer speak over her. A silencing charm was cast and quickly rendered obsolete with a swish of the Gryffindor’s wand. Her eyes narrowed dangerously, every hair bristled.

“Yeah, Lupin _was_ the only level-headed teacher we’ve had!” Harry spoke up again, “We’ll need real magic now that Voldemort’s back!”

“Twenty points from Gryffindor!” Umbridge barked, her eyes never leaving Hermione or her raised wand. “You all have been lied to about a certain Dark wizard’s return from the dead—”

“It’s not a lie!” Hermione and Harry growled together. Part of her wanted to smile at the thought that the two of them were now fighting as one again, but she refused to do so.

“I saw him, and fought him! And I saw him kill Cedric!” Harry said angrily.

“Detention, Mr. Potter!”

“Oh, so I suppose Cedric dropped dead at his own wand, then?” Hermione snarled again.

“And you as well, Miss Granger! You,” She said pointing at Harry. “Are to report to my office this evening at five o’clock. And you,” She pointed to Hermione. “Tomorrow at five o’clock. Now both of you, out of my classroom!” A pink note zoomed after them, cutting into Harry’s hand as he caught it. “And take that to Professor McGonagall.” She added.

The two grabbed their things and marched out of the door, their jaws clamped tightly. Their steps thundered down the corridors, and only once, they lifted their voices to one another.

“Thank you, for backing me, Harry.” Hermione whispered.

“Of course, Hermione.” He returned gruffly. “I don’t expect you’ll be keeping your badge if this continues.”

Hermione sighed. “The badge is nothing. Someone needs to speak truthfully here. Honestly, if they do take my badge, the only thing I’ll miss is the bath.” Harry said nothing else, but nodded his agreement.

 

McGonagall was furious. As the two Gryffindors sat before her, she stood tall, livid, and very stiff, as though the movement to draw a breath would shatter her posture. Upon their arrival, the two Gryffindors were still enraged, and without conscious thought had snapped at their Head of House; a stern glare had reduced them to lowered eyes and apologies.

“Do either of you realize how serious this is?” She growled lowly.

“Professor, we just couldn’t—” Harry started.

“Control your tempers? Act as reasonable young adults? Act as reasonable _people?_ ” She suggested darkly.

“We couldn’t stand by as she lied.” Hermione finished softly, locking eyes with the hawk-like woman.

McGonagall’s eyebrows relaxed slightly, and she drew a deep breath. “This is beyond truth and lies, Miss Granger. This is about keeping your head down and staying in line.”

“But Professor, you believe us, don’t you?” Harry spoke up, anger wavering in his undertone.

McGonagall sighed heavily, looking at the young wizard. “I believe you. But sadly, that doesn’t matter. Use your brains! Spirits, Hermione, I would expect you would know the threat posed. You know where she comes from, you must know to whom she is reporting.” The bell rang, and the thundering of students sounded around them.

Hermione looked down at her hands where they were folded in her lap.

“Now you’re thinking.” A gentle hand tapped her head. “You both must be careful. Now, the two of you are to report to detention on alternating evenings at five. You, Mr. Potter, tonight, and you tomorrow, Miss Granger.” She paused, and met their eyes after a long silent moment. “Misbehavior in Dolores Umbridge’s class could cost you more than house points, detention, or the loss of a prefect’s badge.” She looked pointedly at Hermione.

“Professor?” Hermione whispered.

McGonagall raised her eyebrows in question.

“Is it true then? The Ministry is interfering?”

The wizened witch did not answer right away. “Get to your next class, please.” She turned and held the door open for the two students, who passed her silently. Hermione cast a glance over her shoulder at McGonagall, and saw her face was drawn, her jaw clenched, and remorse shining in her eyes.


	2. Detention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Little early to post, but I have the opportunity now so, why not? In this chapter, there will be blood as well as sexual references and thoughts. Although there's not very much of either, I wanted to warn anyone who may be particularly squeamish about those subjects. Other than that, nothing else that's really new! Have at it!  
> Much love,  
> RC

_My dearest Fleur,_

_Well, I have detention for the first time in my career as a student. I know, it’s surprising; I’ve only been here a day, and already in trouble. Our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Dolores Umbridge, is truly dreadful. She’s a Ministry official and she’s endorsing an unheard of approach to teaching. We’re not allowed to use wands, or practice spells, we just read from Slinkhard’s book and talk about the ‘theory’ of defensive spells because, surely, we ‘won’t ever need to use them’ in or outside of the classroom. She’s prejudiced and hateful and speaks to us like we’re children with a voice that sounds like it was dipped in cyanide-laced honey. She made a crack at ‘half-breeds,’ talking about Lupin when he taught here in my third year, even though he was the only one from all the professors I’ve had that were suitable to teach the subject. I couldn’t stay quiet, and we ended up shouting at each other. Harry jumped into the fight as well, and got detention too, but on alternating days._

_This will be a terrible year, I’m sure… I’ve already had a mountain of homework, the boys have yet to touch their own, and with detention tomorrow, I fear I’ll fall behind. How dearly I miss you. Every night, I look though the pictures you gave me and think about all the things we shared over the summer, and how much I wish I could see you._

_I’m so sorry, but I must cut this letter short. I hope everything is well at home, and with the Order. If you could, please ask Mr. Weasley to check up on Umbridge in the Ministry. Write back to me soon, darling._

_With all my love,_

_Hermione_

Fleur read the letter over twice, chewing on the inside of her lip. The fact that she’d been called ‘darling’ had brought a blush to her cheeks, but the rest of the letter had caused dread to settle in her heart like ice. Dumbledore called the meeting to order, and the blonde was warmly welcomed into the league of the Phoenix.

“How are they faring?” Lupin asked wearily.

“Hermione has detention,” the blonde offered. This was met with choked laughter and disbelieving comments. “Well, read it.” She said softly, handing the parchment over to Sirius. He read it aloud, and soon, the playful glint in his eye had vanished. When he looked up, it was with the utmost concern and worry. Lupin looked both proud and livid at the same time. Fleur sat ridged in her chair, Tonks extended a hand and squeezed the blonde’s gently. The Veela offered a small smile, and kept her eyes trained on Dumbledore.

“This is the beginning of terrible times,” He said lowly, “I suggest you teach Hermione whatever skills necessary to keep communication open, the best you can teach over a distance, at least. Fudge and Umbridge both have a plan, and they’re willing to do whatever it takes to carry it out.”

Fleur listened intently, and as the meeting wore on, her anxiety peaked. Her leg began tapping at the floor, and her hand squeezed harder on Tonks’s.

“Actually,” Dumbledore rumbled. “I think it would be a wise idea if we had another Order member close to the school,” his blue eyes landed on Fleur and held steady. The Veela rose at the inclination, her trust placed fully in the hands of warlock before her.

 

 

_My dearest Hermione,_

_I have spoken to a few of the Order members about this Umbridge woman. As far as I can tell, you must be careful and stay out of her sight. Please, advise Harry to do the same. From what I can gather, things are not going to get better; in fact, they can only get worse. Measure your steps and tread lightly, and do insist that the other two follow._

_This professor must be proof of the Ministry’s attempt to infiltrate Hogwarts. I’ll keep you updated as well as I can, but I fear it may not be of much help. I’ve asked Mr. Weasley to do what he can in order to obtain any information he can. By the way, this is Thraso. Mama just bought her for me as a belated graduation present, so we can use her instead of one of the school owls. I’m sorry to have to cut this short, dearest, but I must start looking for work. Please let me know if anything else happens. I love you, so much, Hermione._

_All my soul,_

_Fleur_

_P.S._

_Keep a watchful eye on the fireplace._

 

Hermione had been happy to receive the letter that morning and to meet the large Great-Horned owl that carried it, and even felt more hopeful about the rest of her day. She had taken her lunch period in the library and had managed to complete her homework before acquiring any more. She sighed sadly as she looked at the fire. She remembered how prettily Fleur’s eyes had sparkled in the firelight and how shy they were in the beginning, juxtaposed to how passionately they bid their farewells to one another mere days ago. The bright red mark had yet to leave her clavicle, and she found herself gently stroking the reminder of her almost-lover.

With a longing sigh, she rose up from her armchair, organized her belongings in her bag, and approached the window beside the fireplace. Rain pounded against the glass, the dusk was gray, dismal, and cold. In the distance she could see a wide oak tree, its leaves under the assault of the pelting rain as the caught the wrath of the storm. Lightening flashed and thunder roared in return, chasing the light from the sky in fast pursuit.

Hermione leaned heavily on the sill, remembering how often Fleur used to hold her there as kisses graced her skin like a rain much softer than the one the sky was crying now. How the blonde’s lips had moved effortlessly over any inch of exposed flesh she could find.

A blush flushed the Gryffindor’s cheeks as she thought of the _other_ time the blonde had entered the library with an honest intention of study. Like the night when Hermione’s attractions first reared, the Veela had been settled with books spread out around her, her hands ink-stained after a solid hour of completing essays, her hair messy about her pale face. When her hourglass had emptied every grain, she stood and approached the very same window, leaning against the windowsill as the lioness did now. Fleur had watched a storm roll in, commenting softly to the brunette who had risen to join her in study. With a large smile, she put an arm about the other’s shoulders, expecting the usual snuggling against her. Instead, Hermione had recalled that time so long ago when she had excused herself when her affections for the other witch had refused to allow her focus, and remembering how she’d longed to kiss the blonde, redeemed herself. She’d pressed the older witch to the window, claiming her lips as hers with a confident, practiced movement. Even though Hermione had to reach up on her toes, it hadn’t impaired her control. Fleur had been surprised to say the very least; a sharp intake of breath allowed the Gryffindor to deepen their kiss and take dominance with her tongue.

Hermione shivered at the memory, thinking of how the blonde had arched against her body, how her fingers had ran through her hair then changed their course to run down her back to hold her closer, her fingertips eagerly sought out warm, bare flesh as Hermione mimicked her actions, her nails gently scratching the blonde’s hips.

Sadly, she shook the memory away, turning her gaze back to the window before she gathered her things and headed to Umbridge’s classroom with a heavy heart. When she arrived, a smaller desk was situated by the professor’s own, and when the door clicked closed, Umbridge looked up from her papers with a wide, hideous smile.

“Come, in, Miss Granger, and take your seat,” she said pleasantly. Hermione did as was asked of her, but never spoke a single word. When she had been seated, she looked at Umbridge wordlessly.

“You will be doing lines this evening. All you’ll need is a sheet of parchment.” When the Gryffindor had retrieved the requested sheet, nothing more, she looked at the professor expectantly. A long, blood-red quill was given to her, Umbridge’s stubby fingers nearly resembled paws as they withdrew.

Hermione looked down at the paper, then at the quill.

“What about ink, Professor?” Her voice was monotone, no hint of a drawl to betray her internal thoughts or emotions.

Umbridge barked a laugh. “You won’t need ink, Miss. Granger.”

Hermione kept her features carefully schooled as she turned back to her parchment. “What will I write?” She asked without looking up.

 _“I will not mate with half-breeds.”_ Umbridge intoned, inflating each word carefully so that there was no mistake. The lioness raised her eyes slowly, the hazel narrowed to a sliver. Her eyebrows had come together in her barely concealed rage, her jaw flexed and relaxed after every other heartbeat. Her upper lip nearly twitched, and as she glared at Umbridge, the toad-woman’s smile only grew.

In the same monotone voice she always used when speaking to the professor, she bit off her next words quickly, so she could not be interrupted. “If Fleur is the ‘half-breed’ to which you are referring, again, she’s quarter-Veela.”

“No talking is required.” Umbridge said, turning back to her own desk. Hermione fumed in her chair, and kept reciting McGonagall’s words in her head. With a scowl etched in her features, she drew her eyes away from the professor, although she found the movement dragged against her wishes. With a series of quick motions, she had scratched the words Umbridge had requested across the paper. At first, the words were merely scored in the paper, but then turned blood red as pain shot across Hermione’s right hand. She flicked her eyes to the source of the pain, seeing the words she’d written fade against her skin, leaving the back of her hand red as though she’d had an itch.

Again, she wrote the sentence. Again, the pain flared and receded. She looked at her hand as blood trickled from the wound, just before it healed over, the skin looking red and inflamed now.

“Hopefully that’ll help the message _sink in._ ” Umbridge gave a little laugh. Hermione did not look up and bit her tongue hard. She began writing the sentence, refusing to allow even a whimper of pain to leave her lips. The quill’s scratch was the only sound that broke the silence of the room. After a while, a large bloodstain marred the parchment under her hands.

Hermione lost track of time as she moved mechanically, and soon, the parchment was filled with the same promise Hermione was more than hell-bent on breaking. Shortly after midnight, Umbridge cleared her throat and beckoned Hermione near. She took the Gryffindor’s hand in her own, studying the half-healed wound carefully.

“I think the message will need several more applications, don’t you?” Hermione did not respond. “I suppose it’s a good thing we have several more detentions scheduled. You may go.” Hermione snatched her hand away, grabbed her things, and left the room in a flurry of robes, the door banging shut behind her.

 

In the girl’s bathroom in the Gryffindor Tower, Hermione washed her hands, cleaning the wound thoroughly before dressing it. The broken skin protested loudly and Hermione hissed with pain, gritting her teeth and swearing loudly. When she finally reached her quarters, her body fell heavily on her bed, her robes still on. With an irritated sigh, she reread Fleur’s latest letter, slightly flustered with the hastened tone the words seemed to convey.

“I wonder what she’s up to,” Hermione thought aloud. Her injured right hand curled around the feather pendant, holding it firmly as a sigh lifted her breasts. Thoughts from her earlier vie with Umbridge resurfaced and she quickly squandered them back down, returning her thoughts to the blonde Veela. She wondered idly if she’d found a job by now, or if she’d changed her mind and joined the Order after all. That, she mused silently, was a double-edged sword. The Order needed strong and sharp-witted witches and wizards alike, but her heart was unwilling to accept the danger. It was one thing for she herself to face danger, after all it was no stranger to her, but how would she respond if her beloved faced such peril?

She turned her thoughts back to Umbridge, finding the vile woman a more pleasant distraction when juxtaposed to her dearest possibly facing danger of any form, even though it was hardly any better. She thought of the words now etched in the back of her hand. _I will not mate with half-breeds._ She thought now of breaking that promise she’d been forced to make without any weight of her heart. How Fleur would feel curled in her arms, her naked skin radiating heat, her heartbeat calm and tranquil in her breast after Hermione had claimed her as her mate, and she as hers.

The thoughts drew her heart into a frenzy, as well as the rest of her body. She welcomed this reaction now, rather than rejecting it as she had such a short time ago. Before Fleur had given her the book. Before she tamed the Horntail. Before she knew the truth. Now, she shivered as her body temperature rose, gooseflesh rising with sensitivity. So clearly, she remembered the bittersweet farewell, how tenderly Fleur had kissed her, and touched her, running long fingers through her hair, manicured nails scratching her back, careful, clever hands stroking her arms, shoulders and belly, memorizing every curve and chuckling at the relaxed noises the Gryffindor emitted as she did so. And those kisses, how they scorched against her skin! How gently Fleur had sealed her departure. If she thought about it hard enough, she could still feel the Veela’s lips against her, how lazily they moved over every inch of exposed skin, playfully baring more.

Hermione had allowed herself to get carried away in the sensations, and the growling Veela above her certainly hadn’t helped her head clear, either. She’d felt every muscle strain under her hands, the power and strength of the huntress evident by her restraint. They hadn’t gone too far in this direction, however much they may have wished. When they woke, Fleur’s chest and collar bones sported bright splotches left by Hermione’s own mouth, covering as much of the blonde as she possibly could with the limitations of Fleur’s shirt still present.

The Gryffindor smiled ruefully at the memories. She found herself aching for the blonde, yearning for her touch and warmth. More so, she found herself missing the taste of her mouth and skin, and even through the haze of her tired mind, she found she’d face the challenges thrown at her, bearing in mind that she’d fight for Fleur, just as Fleur had fought for her. Umbridge meant nothing. The cuts on the back of her hand meant nothing. All that mattered in that singular moment was the fact that the most beautiful woman waited for her just beyond the veil of reality and that of dreams.

 


	3. Faces in the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Here's the next chapter. I'm sorry the previous chapter was so short, and this one isn't much longer, but the next and those to follow will be quite long. I hope you enjoy!  
> Much love,  
> RC  
> P.S.  
> Thank you all for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. I always makes my heart jump whenever I see I have things to read from you all :)

Days passed and Hermione took her punishment in stride. The only thing that kept her sanity intact was the constant reminders of Fleur and waiting for her letters. She had refrained from going to McGonagall about the whole situation, unwilling to allow the toad-like woman any satisfaction of causing her pain. Harry had said she was making him do lines as well, and Hermione desperately hoped that he wasn’t subjected to carving words into his own hand as she was. Ron had neglected his homework, saying he had began fancying walks in the evening instead. The brunette witch hardly had the time or energy to deal with such things, and her prefect duties were wearing her down as well, and she could hardly bring herself to chastise him. Her latest detention had come to an end, and her hand was dripping blood as she walked. Nothing she found would heal the wound or alleviate the pain. Finally, she made her way to McGonagall’s office, and knocked loudly on the door. It was far after hours, and when the door opened, the hawk-like woman was furious. She glared down at Hermione with a venomous scowl, and threatened her to more detention.

“Professor, please forgive me,” The young witch whispered, her eyes were tired and dark, her voice void of emotion. “I would much rather have ten centuries’ worth of detentions with you.” McGonagall stepped back in surprise, her anger abating for a moment.

“What’s happened to you?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, beckoning the girl inside and closing the door behind her, ushering her into a secret part of her office that revealed the Deputy Headmistress’s living quarters.

Hermione hesitated, and held her hand out. The cloth she’d wrapped the wound with had already saturated with blood. The ancient sorceress met her eyes again, before looking back at the rag. She gingerly removed the covering, gasping at what she saw.

“This was your punishment?” Hermione nodded mutely. “What about Harry?”

“I don’t know about him. He hasn’t been very talkative since we started school again. With that woman… I don’t expect his punishment to be any better. But that’s not why I came here tonight. I can’t find anything that will heal it, or even take the pain away. Can you help me?”

The old witch sighed heavily, setting a kettle to boil and motioned Hermione to sit at the table. While it warmed, she brought out a large bowl from a cupboard and a jar containing a yellow liquid and shapeless forms. She poured the contents into the bowl and pushed it towards the Gryffindor.

“Soak your hand in that, Hermione.” The Gryffindor was shaken by the use of her first name. “Pickled and strained murtlap tentacles, it should stop the pain. Here, have a cup,” She added, pushing a mug of tea to the young witch.

“What can we do, Professor?” She asked, dreading the answer, but relieved that the essence had indeed stopped the pain and bleeding.

McGonagall sighed, looking lost and unsure and very angry. “Now, there’s very little I can do. In a few weeks, Merlin, a few a days perhaps, there won’t anything anyone can do.”

“So we’re right? The Ministry is interfering. And with lethal intentions.” McGonagall nodded very slowly. The strong witch looked so old and weak as she sipped from her tea.

“When is your last detention?”

“The day after tomorrow,”

“So Harry’s is tomorrow,” McGonagall nodded solemnly. “I’ll do what I can for each of you but it won’t be much. Please, Miss Granger, tread carefully around Dolores.” Hermione nodded silently and finished her tea. “Take another jar of murtlap, I pray Harry doesn’t need it, but in the event he does…” She gave a shudder. “How is Miss Delacour?” She asked, swiftly changing the subject.

Hermione’s eyes brightened at the name, although they remained forlorn. “Fleur’s doing very well, actually. She’s staying with the Order, though I’m not sure if she’s joined or not. She’s been looking for work, and I’m not sure how well that’s panning out either. She said she wanted to take the same opportunity that other freshly graduated students would be offered, rather than take advantage of her family’s name or money.”

“That’s very humble of her,” McGonagall said with a fond, approving smile.

“Yes, I’ll tell her you asked of her, I’ll sure she’ll be pleased.”

“What of the partnership, if you don’t mind my asking?” The older witch queried with her eyebrows raised curiously.

Hermione bushed darkly and looked away. “I… I accepted the night of the Yule Ball. We haven’t…” she trailed off, embarrassed. “You know, but it has started, and I’m very happy with her.” She smiled down at the table, her weariness forgotten for a moment.

McGonagall smiled knowingly, nodding understanding. “It’s nearly one in the morning, Hermione. It’s past time you got to bed.” The Gryffindor nodded and transported the bowl of murtlap solution back into the jar, and packed them both away in her bag.

“Oh, and Hermione, please get quick word to Fleur that the owls will soon be infiltrated. I’m sure Dolores will mandate that practice quite soon.”

The Gryffindor nodded and began the trek to her quarters, and despite the longing of her limbs, she wrote a letter to Fleur, and much to her surprise, Thraso had remained perched happily outside her window, and seemed glad to carry her letter. It had been coded, but she felt confident that the Veela could decipher it easily. With aching limbs and eyes, she fell into bed, asleep before she hit the pillow.

 

The next day brought another pile of homework, but also heralded Ron’s acceptance on the Quidditch team and called for an impromptu celebration in the Common Room. That night, Ron received a terrible letter from Percy, congratulating him for becoming a Prefect but also warning him away from Harry. It was saturated in the same saccharine poison Umbridge used so often, and the three sat in the deserted common room, still stewing over the words written. Harry’s hand had been soaking in the murtlap essence, after Hermione discovered the truth about his own detentions. The fire coughed, and a peculiar form in the grate caught her attention.

“Look!” She whispered excitedly. From the fire, Sirius’s face smiled up at them happily.

“Hello, all,” Harry and Ron fell to the floor with abandon, Hermione just barely catching his bowl of murtlap before it hit the floor. “I was beginning to think you would go to bed before everyone else would. I’ve been checking every hour, nearly scared the daylights out of a first-year. Don’t worry, Hermione,” he said hastily, seeing the girl’s terrified expression. “I was gone before she had time to do a double-take. Besides, this is the only way to answer Harry’s letter without resorting to codes and codes can be broken.”

“You wrote?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Ron asked softly.

“I got distracted,” Harry murmured, staring intently at Sirius, his thoughts flooded with Cho.

They launched into a conversation concerning Harry’s scar and how terribly it had hurt when Umbridge had touched him, and what all it could mean. It soon flowed into a discussion of Umbridge’s possible plots within the Ministry.

“Well, she drafted a bit of anti-werewolf legislation two years ago that makes it damn near impossible for them to find jobs.” Flashes of how terribly shabby Lupin had looked over the summer crossed their minds dolefully.

“So, what’s Umbridge teaching you lot anyway? Certainly not Dark Arts, we’ve concluded she’s not a Death Eater—”

“She’s foul enough to be one!” Harry growled, Hermione and Ron nodded their agreement beside him.

“Indeed she may be, but what _is_ she teaching you? How to kill half-breeds?”

“No, she’s not teaching us anything.” Ron said softly.

“We’re not allowed to use magic! How preposterous is that?” Hermione whispered loudly.

“All we do is read out of the bloody textbook.” Harry finished.

Sirius was quiet for a moment. “Ah, well, that figures. Our inside information from the Ministry reports that Fudge doesn’t want you trained in combat.”

_“Trained in combat?_ What the bloody hell else is a Defense Against the Dark Arts class for?”

“Yeah, what do they think we’re doing? Building an army?” Ron retorted.

Sirius cleared his throat. “Actually, that’s exactly what he thinks you’re doing. Well not _you,_ Harry, Dumbledore. He’s afraid that Dumbledore is building his own private army that he can use to overthrow the Ministry and take over Fudge’s position.”

The three Gryffindors were silent for several long moments.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of, including all the things Luna Lovegood says.” Ron piped up. A strange look crossed Harry’s face, a mixture of confusion, anger, and fond remembrance.

“So… we’re being denied a proper, solid education and from learning defensive magic because Fudge is scared of we’ll use spells against the Ministry?” Hermione snarled, her lip twitching and a flush covering her cheeks.

“Yep,” Sirius said. “Fudge is getting more paranoid about Dumbledore by the day, and thinks he’ll stop at nothing to seize power. It’s only a matter of time before he has Dumbledore arrested on some bull shit charge.”

Hermione thought this over for a while, and Ron told Sirius about Percy’s letter. Sirius plead ignorant to any idea pertaining to the next issue of the _Daily Prophet_ that Percy so happily insisted they see _._

“What about Hagrid? Any news on him?”

“He should have been back by now, no one’s sure what’s keeping him. Dumbledore’s not worried though, so I advise you three not worry either. Madame Maxime was with him and we’ve been in contact with her. Don’t ask questions about why he’s not there, Dumbledore won’t want any more attention brought to the matter.”

“Is Fleur there?” Hermione whispered, hopeful.

The side of Sirius’s face was seen for a moment as he looked around. “I believe she’s around here somewhere. Let me fetch her.” He was gone for a moment, and then a new face took form amongst the coals.

“Fleur!” Hermione shouted, barely able to contain herself. The blonde looked strange, composed completely of flame and coal, but beautiful all the same. Even though it had hardly been two weeks, the Gryffindor was ecstatic to see her beloved.

“Hermione!” The Veela shouted back. “How lovely it is to see you! And you two as well, please, tell me about your classes!” How happy she looked, her eyes bright and her smile wide, obvious effort put forth to look at the other two boys. Hermione flushed at the notion.

“Well, everything is going rather… terribly.” Hermione sighed. “We’ve had so much homework, several essays every night, and, and my detention…”

Fleur’s eyebrows knitted together in suspicion. “Do I want to hear about that?” She asked softly.

Hermione sighed heavily. “There’s nothing you can do. No one can do anything about it, it seems.” The Veela looked most concerned and the Gryffindor felt as though she was keeping a secret from her. “Her ideal detention is far from orthodox. It’s…”

“Brutal. Hell. Barbaric. I’d rather have detention with Snape.” Harry offered. Fleur straightened, her lip twitching in irritation.

“Tell me.” Her voice was low, though it did not drawl. It was concerned, and, even though she’d never admit it, fearful. But it was her eyes that made it impossible to refuse her request so softly spoken. They blazed in the ashes and flames but were soft as they held Hermione’s, begging to know what ailed her heart so.

Wordlessly, Hermione and Harry offered their right hands, each bore a message of pain and agony. She read what was written there, and several emotions crossed her face. Anger. Despair. Pain. Longing. Nostalgia. Fear. 

Her eyes bore a terrible forlorn sorrow, but her mouth and eyebrows screamed barely contained rage. The cords of her neck stood out and her pulse was easily detected at the base of her throat, so violently her heart pounded within her breast.

“Does ze ‘Eadmaster know?” She rumbled, her accent thick in her words.

“McGonagall does.” Hermione whispered.

“Does she ‘ave a liniment?”

“Yes, she gave it to me.”

“’As is ‘elped?”

“It has. I, I can’t feel it anymore.”

The Veela’s eyes glanced at Harry. “And you?”

“The same,” he’d nearly called her “ma’am” so unwavering was her tone.

She nodded, very unpleased, but satisfied with their answers. “When is your last session?”

“Harry’s is finished, and mine is the tomorrow evening.”

Fleur’s teeth had been set, her jaw clenching in time with her pulse. She nodded, her face stern and her eyes dark, even amongst the flames. “I’m glad to hear it’ll be over soon.” The accent had left her voice as she took a deep breath and released it. “You three need to get in bed.” She spoke softly, although her tone did not leave room for argument. Ron and Harry wished her sweet dreams, but Hermione refused to leave so quietly.

“Please, Fleur, I don’t want to go to sleep like this. I feel like you’re upset with me.” Sirius, hearing the words, left them to have their privacy, muttering good night, even though they could hear him cursing Umbridge.

“No, dearest, never with you,” she sighed heavily. “This, this is something I can never escape. And now you’re tied to me. Not entirely, but obviously enough for you to catch hell from it too.” She looked defeated, small, her pride depleted. “And it’s my fault.”

Hermione drew herself up straighter, her voice firm. “Don’t you ever look at me like that.” She snapped. “Don’t you ever look so sad and remorseful about our relationship. No matter what comes from our relation, good or bad, I will take it with pride, because that’s what we do. Ever since I learned of the Veela and their rituals, I knew what I was agreeing to. If I had any qualms, I wouldn’t have kissed you in the first place. What are mates for, Fleur?”

The Veela met her eyes, sorrow laden there. “To share burdens and tempests. To stand by and fight alongside, and not against.”

“Exactly. Stop blaming yourself, Fleur.” Hermione’s eyes softened now, sympathy and compassion surging forth. “This wasn’t in either of our control. Please don’t feel like this is your fault.”

“Hermione,” the Veela spoke softly. “I feel like you were put in harm’s way because of me, because of who I am. And there’s nothing we can do, nothing _I_ can do.”

“Then fight, Fleur.” Hermione rumbled, her voice low again but held a tone a pleading. It wasn’t like Fleur, to be so drawn and without her pride about her. She knew, now, she was the strong, proud Veela’s greatest weakness. But more than the partnership, Hermione knew her own pain could not outweigh the Veela’s upon hearing of it. “Fight because it’s what we do, because right now it’s the only thing to do; fight for me.” The blonde nodded, biting her lip so hard Hermione felt certain blood had been drawn. The next time their eyes met it was with equal anger and strength.

 The pride returned, a growl rising from her breast. Her eyebrows drew together, then came apart, as if an idea had popped into mind. She nodded curtly, blinking once. “Anything for you, Hermione.”

The lioness smiled, glad to see the fire returned to her Veela. “Thank you Fleur. I want to speak of something different, Merlin knows I need a distraction. Now what about the other goings-on with the Order? How are they?”

Fleur seemed grateful for the change in conversation and launched into what little she knew. Nothing new had arisen to her knowledge. Shamin and the babies were doing well, Fleur had just returned from seeing them that morning. Her grandmother had asked of her, inquiring of her health.

“Nothing very new then?” Hermione sighed at the shake of Fleur’s head. “What about work?”

The Veela shrugged. “Nothing serious yet, I’m afraid.” Hermione nodded her understanding, curling on the floor in front of the fire. “Please, get up to bed, love. You need to rest. I’ll write a letter to you within the week.

“No, Fleur, don’t send letters,” Hermione groaned as she sat up. “McGonagall told me they’ll be intercepted and we’re sure they’ll be read.”

Fleur didn’t look pleased at all and bit the inside of her cheek. “All right. I’ll have to teach you a spell.”

“When will we have the time to do anything like that? I’d much rather learn from you in person.” She asked, rubbing her eyes.

“Let me worry about that, dear. Now get to sleep.”

Hermione nodded, her eyes reluctant to remain open despite herself. “Good night, Fleur. I love you.”

“Bonsoir, Hermione. I love you too.”

 

Withdrawing her face from the fire, tears welling in her eyes, the Veela stood sharply. Her fire had returned, and yearned to burn everything in her path. She met Sirius’s worried gaze with her own, and his jaw slackened in surprise. He hadn’t expected to see the blonde’s pupils elliptical and dangerous. He rose slowly, as if he was afraid he’d startle her. He spared a quick glance at the clock, chewing his cheek at the time.

“Get some rest, Fleur,” he said softly. “I know your answer, but you have work tomorrow. Please, I’ll help you—”

“Tell me how to get into Hogwarts.” Fleur whispered. “I must speak to McGonagall and I cannot send an owl. Tell me, Padfoot.” Her eyes flashed, seeing the hesitation on his face and destroyed anything he could say in defiance of his knowledge with the utterance of his Maurder’s name. He folded, and told her what she wished.

 

Several minutes later, the Veela was prowling around Hogwarts, her traces in Honeydukes long since erased. She had no map, but upon emerging at the statue of a witch, as Sirius had said, she found her way to McGonagall’s office easily. With three swift knocks, the witch answered her door, as though she’d been expecting her.

“Fleur,” McGonagall said softly. “I thought you would come.”

“I thought you’d expect me, Professor.” The Veela replied, her eyes still portraying her danger, although the aged witch seemed at ease as she admitted the blonde into her living quarters. They sat together at the same table Hermione had sat at such a short time ago, instead of tea, McGonagall poured them each a glass of sherry. Fleur accepted gratefully, and sipped from it carefully.

“How did you get in here?” McGonagall asked softly, peering over her glass.

“Hogwarts has many secrets, Professor, I’d rather keep mine guarded too.”

“Right you are, Fleur. Which was it? The statue of the old crone? Ah, it was. No matter, you’re welcome here nonetheless, even though it is rather dangerous at the present time.”

Fleur took her time in responding, reading the other’s body language and tones of voice. “Professor, if it is dangerous for me to be here at the present moment, why are students here as well?”

“We have allies at the moment but it won’t last long. I trust Miss Granger has told you her theories.”

“She has,” Fleur responded, taking another sip. “And I believe her. However, I’m here on other business.” McGonagall’s eyebrows quirked upwards in question. “Dumbledore has given me a job and explicit directions. I want to use said job and directions to do what I can for my mate, but I need your help as well.”

“What kind of help?”

“Dealing with Professor Umbridge.” McGonagall’s eyes studied the Veela’s, understanding where her anger had rooted.

“And what do you propose, Miss Delacour?”


	4. The Three Broomsticks

Hermione woke the next morning stiff in neck and her heart sore. Seeing Fleur had been a balm to her spirit, but now left only with memory she was raw again. She brewed a silencing potion, and went down for breakfast. The delivery owl further burdened her heart as the front page of _The Daily Prophet_ bore Umbridge and her new title as the ‘High Inquisitor’ of Hogwarts. Dumbfounded, she read the article, and discovered the new powers the toad-like woman now held over the other teachers and how it would affect the rest of the school year. She growled the article aloud to Harry and Ron, who found it just as unnerving, and begrudgingly went to class. The whole thing was absurd, in Hermione’s opinion, and her irritation only flared when Umbridge insisted on reading the article to her students in class before they read, or pretended to read, the next chapter in their bogus textbook.

“I can’t wait to see Umbridge observe McGonagall,” Ron laughed as they walked to dinner. “She’ll be put in her place right fast, I bet.” Hermione smiled at his antics, indeed it would be something to look forward to, and they were rewarded when the Transfigurations professor was observed the next day.

McGonagall had treated Umbridge just as she would an annoying pest, largely ignoring her and tripping her up to make a mockery of herself, one she deserved after what had transpired earlier in Divination. Umbridge had huffed from the corner of the classroom, scribbling notes and turning very interesting shades of color whenever she interrupted McGonagall and was met with a Gryffindor’s fire and a professor’s impatience.

At the end of the lesson, the three purposefully stayed behind, taking their time to clean their areas and return their mice to the box. No information of great importance had been collected, but they did see their Head of House throw them a smug smile.

The day dragged on and slowed even more as she entered the classroom of Defense Against the Dark Arts. She’d not yet drawn the vial from her pocket, not yet keen to reduce herself to such drastic measures, for something made her feel optimistic. Umbridge appraised her with a sharp eye, smiling widely.

“As we completed chapter one the previous lesson, I should like you all to turn to page nineteen and continue reading chapter three, ‘Common Defensive Theories and Their Derivation.’ There will be no need to talk.” Immediately, Hermione’s hand was thrust into the air. Umbridge looked up irritably, and then plastering a saccharine smile on her face, neared Hermione’s desk. She spread her stubby fingers out on the desk before her, adorned in hideous rings, and lowered her face level with the Gryffindor’s. Hermione nearly recoiled, smelling the woman’s rancid breath and resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. “What is it this time, Miss Granger?” She whispered sweetly.

“I’ve already read chapter three.” Hermione responded without hesitating.

“Then proceed to chapter four.” Umbridge returned, her toad-like smile never wavering.

“I’ve read that one too. I’ve read the whole book.” Umbridge blinked in surprise, but quickly regained composure, keen to outwit the filthy Mudblood in her classroom.

“Well, then, you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counterjinxes in chapter fifteen.” The woman held a glint in her eye, tightening the snare about her prey. But the noose never reached the proud Gryffindor, for she answered without second thought, her mind meticulously structured and offed her every word of the mentioned chapter.

“He says that counterjinxes are improperly named.” She spoke at once, emotionless as she watched the glint dull from the professor’s eyes. “He says ‘counterjinx’ is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable.” Umbridge’s brows lifted, impressed despite herself. Hermione continued. “But I disagree.” The other’s eyes became cold as she repeated Hermione’s previous statement.

“You disagree?”

“I do,” Hermione spoke clearly, her voice rang without waver and carried though the classroom, whereas Umbridge had been whispering. “Mr. Slinkhard doesn’t like jinxes does he? But I think they can be useful when used defensively.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Umbridge rumbled, straightening up and forgetting whisper as all eyes turned to the pair of witches. “Well, I’m afraid it is Mr. Slinkhard’s opinion what matters in this classroom, and not yours, Miss Granger.” She growled. Hermione locked eyes with the other witch, her jaw clenching her teeth so tight they were fit to shatter. “Do you not understand that there are and will continue to be wizards much brighter and cleverer than you? Those of pure blood?”

“Perhaps you were unaware that the pureblood families only have a few generations left until they will be forced to interbreed if they wish to keep the line pure.” Hermione returned politely. “Then perhaps they won’t be so esteemed with the genetic mutations that come with such acts.” Her eyes never once wavered, but bore into the other witch’s eyes with a burning heat.

“I think another week’s detention shall benefit you, Miss Granger.” Umbridge said promptly, walking away from her desk.

“Actually, you cannot give me detention for such a thing as this.” The professor whirled, her terrible smile twisted into a scowl. “I gave simple facts, facts that have been recorded in numerous texts and very true, given the nature of ‘pure breeding.’ If you disagree, feel free to take the matter to the Headmaster, but I’ll save you the trouble and tell you that he would agree with me.” Umbridge did not respond, instead, continued to her desk, leaving Hermione smug with herself as she drew out homework from her other classes and completed it in silence.

When the bell rang, she half expected Umbridge to call her back to her desk, but she was never beckoned, and continued on to take lunch with Harry and Ron, who clapped her back and cheered, telling all the Gryffindors of her deed and use of wit put to good use.

“Blimey, ‘Mione,” Fred said in utter disbelief. “You’re taking on Umbridge more than either of us have,”

“At least as of yet.” George finished.

“We might need a certain _Prefect’s_ help, if you know what I mean.” Fred continued, bumping her shoulder lightly.

“Perhaps as a future business assistant?”

“Or associate?”

“Oh no, just because I stood up to that bitch does not mean I want to get involved with all of your shenanigans. I’m tired of her looking at me like I’m worthless and like I don’t know anything.”

“Ah, you know more than we, Granger,” George piped. “And you can bet we’re willing to pay a high price—”

“No, George!” Hermione laughed, slapping the twin. “I will do no such thing!”

The twins looked dismayed, but a glimmer of hope still rested in their eyes. “Ah, no matter,” Fred said quietly. “Getting under Umbridge’s skin is enough for us, right George?” The twin in question nodded enthusiastically at his side.

The day continued to pass, and after a nice, warm shower, a thorough brushing of teeth, and a quick drying spell, Hermione made her way to Umbridge’s classroom. Upon knocking, a different voice allowed her entrance. McGonagall stood tall over Umbridge, a smug expression on her face when she took in Hermione’s form in the doorway.

“Ah, Miss Granger,” She said cheerfully. “We were just discussing you,” Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed in question, studying the older Gryffindor carefully. “Professor Dumbledore has another task for you, so you will be taking your detention with him rather than with Professor Umbridge.” The other woman scowled deeply, her expression sour and distained.

“Will I need to make up this detention, Professor?” She asked, looking at her Head of House.

“No, you will not. Professor Umbridge has been kind enough to count the Headmaster’s detention as her own.” Judging from the current expression Umbridge wore, she’d been anything but kind and every bit forced.

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione said, nodding to Umbridge, who did not offer any confirmation of having heard or seen her.

“Well then, let us go to the Headmaster and receive your orders. Have a nice evening, Dolores.” The other did not respond.

Together, McGonagall and Hermione took their leave, and walked through the castle.

“What was that about, Professor?” Hermione asked as they walked along a corridor.

“First of all, I’d like to commend you on your behavior today, as well as condemn it,” The aged witch chuckled. “You read the handbook, didn’t you?”

Hermione blushed slightly. “I reread it. However I fear that won’t matter much longer, I’m sure things are set to change even more in the coming weeks.”

The professor sighed heavily. “Indeed they will. I suggest taking that potion before class everyday now, Miss Granger. You’ve made your point perfectly clear.”

“Thank you, Professor. Where are we going?”

“Professor Dumbledore tasked me with your detention, Hermione. You will be going into Hogsmeade. A rather important member waits for you there, and you shall be reporting there as often as you see fit. I’ve cleared you leave with the owner of Honeyduke’s, and he will be expecting you.”

“A member… of the Order, Professor?” She whispered.

“Yes, Miss Granger. Go on now, I trust you know the way.” They had arrived at the statue of the old witch, and Hermione blushed darkly, for she did indeed know the way.

“What about Flitch?”

“I have more control over him than he is willing to admit. If you encounter any problems with him, come to me, and I will handle everything.” She patted her shoulder gently. “Report to the Three Broomsticks. The Order member mentioned will be waiting for you.”

 

Hermione hurried through the twisting corridors and emerged into Honeyduke’s sweets shop as she had before on so many occasions, except this time, without fear or Harry’s cloak. The shop owner paid her no heed, and she stole silently out of the shop and into the Three Broomsticks. The place was busy as it usually was, and seeing no familiar Order associates, took a seat at the bar. She took to digging through her bag, in desperate search for a Sickle.

“Care for a drink, beautiful?”

“Oh, just a butter—Fleur!” She exclaimed excitedly. “What on earth are you doing here?” She took in the blonde’s appearance after a long, firm embrace. She was dressed in shabby clothes, ones that she obviously didn’t mind getting dirty. It was a simple white tunic that was tucked down into beige breeches. An apron was tied about her waist, stained with wine in some places.

The Veela chuckled, reaching under the counter and pulling out a bottle and cracking it open for the Gryffindor. “What’s it look like, dear? I’m working.”

“I didn’t think you had a job yet,” Hermione said softly.

“I wanted to surprise you,” She said sheepishly.  

“Well, you certainly did surprise me,” Hermione returned, taking a sip of her drink.

“I see,” She chuckled. “You’re flushing, dear. Thank you!” she called as a patron dropped coins into the jar on the bar. Even though Hermione had accepted the Veela’s partnership, others remained infatuated with her, offering her more tip than any other waitress. With a quick motion, she took a few coins and dropped them into another jar, belonging to a waitress who was currently wiping down a countertop.

“Fleur!” Madame Rosemerta barked from across the bar. “Go on home, dear! I think we have things covered for the night!” She called. Fleur nodded and thanked her boss, emptying her jar into her pocket.

“Well, would you like to come up? We have a bit to discuss.” Hermione threw her a questioning glance that was returned with a warm laugh as the blonde left her post and took her arm, leading her up to the inn portion of the tavern. “Madame Rosemerta is renting to me for the moment, although I spend most of my free time in Headquarters.” She explained, unlocking a door with her wand.

“You joined the Order?” Hermione questioned.

“I did,” she replied, stepping inside. “I needed something else to do, and I want to fight. I took Dumbledore’s offer shortly after you left, and quite frankly, I’m glad I did.” She gestured for Hermione to enter, and saw a room vastly different than the quarters she’d had in the Beauxbaton’s carriage. This room was much smaller, but it boasted the appearance of an apartment. The living room had a mismatched sofa set and a long coffee table, the kitchen had a gas stove and a small table suitable for dining. A narrow hall led to a bathroom and an adjacent bedroom. Fleur gave her the tour, Hermione too happy to take Fleur’s hand to reprimand her for keeping this secret. Upon reaching the bedroom, Hermione saw the bed was unmade but covered by the same silk bedclothes she remembered from Beauxbaton’s.

The two sat down at the foot of the bed, still holding hands, as if they’d never parted. Fleur leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Hermione’s lips, sighing against the touch lovingly. Hermione responded in kind, wanting nothing more than to press the woman down into the bed and claim her. But she had a job to do, and forced herself to keep that in the forefront of her mind.

When they parted, she found Fleur’s eyes to be dilated and her lips swollen slightly. The sight intensified her yearning, but she reminded herself yet again of the reason why she was there.

“Why exactly am I here, Fleur?” Hermione asked, leaning her head on the blonde’s.

“Well, to take care of that hand for one.” The Veela replied. “And to keep you away from that dreadful woman as long as I can.”

Hermione smiled at Fleur, touched that she’d gone to such lengths to prevent her pain. “All right, do what you can,” She said, offering her hand to the blonde.

The Veela studied the back of her hand carefully, scowling at the words there, but instead of pain residing in her eyes, fire burned fiercely. She murmured spells in a language that was not French nor English, and the thin scars on Hermione’s hand burned slightly. Fleur hissed from her side, and she saw with horror that the words had appeared on the other’s right hand. The wound bled as much as Hermione’s had, but with a swish of her wand, it closed seamlessly, and when the blood was washed away, nothing remained on either hand.

“Fleur, what on Earth was that?” Hermione whispered, astounded.

“Veela magic, dearest,” She replied. “You remember the story of how my people first began? Well, our magic goes much deeper than just transformation and mating. We have a system of sacrifices and gifts for certain acts, and so I offered my pain and blood as a sacrifice so that you would no longer bear it. I was happy to make it, Hermione.” The Veela nodded said, kissing the back of Hermione’s hand gently. “It is the least I can do,”

“Thank you, Fleur, but you really didn’t have to do that,”

“Nonsense. You would do the same for me, if I let you.” The blonde kissed her cheek and rose, gathering clothes and slipped into the bathroom to change.

When she had dressed in pajamas, she lay down on the bed tiredly, drawing Hermione with her closely. She held her tightly, as if she never wanted to let her go. The Gryffindor felt happy to comply, sighing as she listened to her beloved’s heart beating beneath her ear. It was a comfort that she’d missed, perhaps more than anything else.

“Have you any idea what to do about Umbridge?” Fleur asked quietly.

“Well, I have been bouncing an idea around.” Hermione murmured.

“And that is?” Fleur’s voice rumbled in her chest as she spoke.

“I’ve been considering asking Harry to teach us Defense Against the Dark Arts. But he’s under so much pressure, and I doubt he’ll be willing to take on something like that.”

“I think it’s a great idea. He’s the best in your year, perhaps even in the school when it comes to defensive magic. Give him the idea, at least. He’ll take the time to think it over, and in the end, I think he’ll come to the same conclusion.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Hermione sighed, snuggling closer into the blonde’s side. “I hope we can do something soon, though. We’re certainly not learning anything with her.”

“As do I. The Ministry’s bound to become more corrupt and their arrogance will cost them greatly.”

Hermione nodded against her, sighing into her touch as the blonde began to scratch her back gently. She let out a soft noise of enjoyment, rolling further onto the blonde to allow her freer reign. Fleur chuckled under her, now using both hands to massage Hermione.

“Has Draco given you any more problems?”

“No, I think after the Yule Ball last year, he finally got the message.” She sighed. Every muscle relaxed beneath Fleur’s hands, and soon she lay in a nerveless puddle across the Veela’s chest and abdomen.

“I’ve missed you,” She whispered quietly, against Fleur’s chest. A gentle kiss was pressed to her forehead with a sigh. This kiss soon traveled down to her cheek, her jawline, and finally to her lips. Hermione met her and responded happily, pinning the blonde beneath her and preventing escape. She claimed Fleur as her own, her hands intrepid as they found their way up her chest. The memory of what Umbridge had forced her to carve into her own hand resurfaced, and she was filled with a desire to renounce any and all implications given by those words. Her mouth opened and took the Veela’s tongue with a low moan.

Fleur responded loudly, unused to the sensation and reveling in the thrill. She turned quickly and held Hermione beneath her, fighting back gales of laughter. How long it seemed, they’d been apart, since she’d held her girl in her arms, warm and safe as she now did. The Veela withdrew with a deep sigh, although the other seemed to resent the space placed between them despite the blonde hair tickling her cheek where she was held close to her chest again.

“I missed you so much, and I’m so sorry for my behavior last night,” Fleur murmured softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Hermione’s forehead. The blonde’s arms were tight and strong around Hermione, warm, familiar, and most empathetically welcome.

The Gryffindor sighed, allowing her passion to settle back to embers rather than flame and snuggled closer to Fleur. “I missed you too. And I understand, Fleur, I really do. But now isn’t the time to feel sorry for ourselves, I want to hear of happier things. How is working here? How long have you been working here?” She quirked her eyebrows at the other witch, looking up at her from their embrace.

Fleur chuckled beneath her, rubbing her back affectionately. “Not very long. The wages aren’t much, but that’s why I wanted to do this first. I wanted to know what is would be like.”

“Remind me again why you wanted to experience poverty?”

Fleur drew a deep breath, Hermione’s cheek lifting on her chest. “Just because I was born with a silver spoon within reach does not mean I had in my mouth, Hermione. My parent taught me how to appreciate hardships despite being born a Delacour.”

The brunette considered that briefly, remembering how Fleur’s parents had accepted her so easily and how carefree they had been. One particular memory stood out from amongst the others. One night, André had decided to take the family out to dinner, for no grand reason or celebration, but to save his wife the trouble of preparing dinner after a rather long day. What had surprised the Gryffindor (other than the absence of house elves in the Delacour estate) was how at ease they seemed to dine at a Muggle restaurant that didn’t boast five stars or a rooftop pavilion, instead sitting together in a rowdy bunch at Gabrielle’s favorite pizzeria, one that boasted a friendly puppet show much to the younger girl’s enjoyment, for she was not quite old enough to bore of such things. And, perhaps even more importantly, how happily they had chatted to the waitress, tipping her far more than twenty percent after their meal.

“I remember how kind they were, when we went out for pizza over the summer. Your parents are incredible people,” She murmured softly.

Fleur chuckled under her again. “Yes, they are. I told you they were, didn’t I?”

Hermione burrowed deeply into Fleur’s side, pressing kisses to her jawline. “And they have a most remarkable daughter,” She returned.

Again, Fleur’s laugh shook her frame and blonde hair tickled her nose. “If you insist. But they’re the reason why I chose to do things this way. Just to learn and understand, grow.” She tapped Hermione’s nose with her index finger gently. “And so far, it’s going well. It’s hard sometimes, when we have rowdy, unruly customers come in, but we haven’t had a bar fight or anything of the kind since I’ve been here.”

“Have you gotten any other job offers?”

“Nothing I’m interested in, yet. Besides, I’d rather continue applying like other people, instead of being offered positions out of the blue. I plan on staying here, maybe for the remainder of your school year.” She winked. “But I do plan on moving up in terms of living arrangements, soon.”

“Oh, really? What are you thinking of?”

Fleur considered quietly. “Well, there’s a little cottage I have my eye on. I’ll have to pay my debt to Madame Rosemerta, at least until I have the money to pay her back for the room here.”

“Which cottage?”

“The one towards the outskirts of town, with the red door, the little garden and flower boxes. Close to the path you three took to see Snuffles last year.” Hermione smiled at the memory.

“I know the one. What about the Order? You’ve been keeping secrets from me,” she accused playfully, poking her side gently.

“I’m sorry, dearest,” Fleur sighed. “I just didn’t want you to worry over anything else, or put more stress on you. But yes, I did join the Order. Dumbledore decided that it would be a good thing to have an Order member near Hogwarts, especially with everything that’s going on. And that reminds me,” She picked herself up from the bed, much to Hermione’s displeasure. She retrieved her wand, and a piece of parchment.

“This is the spell my mother uses when an owl isn’t available. It’s simple, really, but takes some getting used to.” She held the page up in her hand, and tapped it once, a soft incantation set it to burn with soft blue flames. Hermione heard her name murmured with the spell. Fleur instructed her on how to summon the parchment, and with a few tries with the incantation, it burned itself back into being. Then she practiced sending it and soon mastered the spell.

“Your mother invented this?” She asked softly.

“No, my great-grandmother did. It’s a secret we’ve held on to for several generations now,” Fleur chuckled. “I’m happy to share it with you, though. It’ll come to be a huge asset, especially with Umbridge.” Her throat seemed to constrict around the name, her eyes narrowed as she said it.

Hermione took her face into her hands gently. “Come on, now. We’re not going to think about her right now. We’re not going to give her the satisfaction of bothering us.” She kissed the Veela’s lips gently before looking sternly back up into her eyes. “Alright?”

Fleur sighed and nodded. The two settled back in the bed together, snuggling against one another happily. Hermione all but insisted on holding the Veela, and finally won the battle out as they lay contentedly, the blonde at ease on her chest. A deep sigh filled her lungs, full of the scent she’d come to crave like a drug. Fleur drew a deep breath as well, ending in a yawn.

“Fleur,” Hermione murmured. “What happens if I fall asleep here? Hypothetically, of course.”

“Well,” the Veela murmured. “You could break into Honeyduke’s before opening. The wards only alert the owner if you enter with the intention of vandalizing or stealing. And, McGonagall and I have arranged your usage of the passage with him, so feel free to stay. Hypothetically, of course.” Hermione slapped her shoulder playfully and sighed.

“It’d be nice,” she mused quietly. “I’d like to fall asleep with you like I did nearly every day of holiday,”

Fleur chuckled in remembrance. “It is different, isn’t it? Growing so accustomed to sleeping with another, then being alone again. It’s affected my dreams,”

The Gryffindor tightened her arms about the other witch. “It is strange… I don’t know how I’ll ever go back to sleeping alone in the castle, knowing you’re here,”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, but not tonight.” The Veela stretched up to kiss Hermione’s jaw again. “The bathroom is the room across the hall if you need to shower.” With a groan, the brunette pulled herself up, and staggered into the bathroom, where the tap ran for all of five minutes before it shut off, and Hermione poked her head around the door.

“Any extra toothbrushes in here?”

“Yes, left drawer, love,” Fleur returned, smiling. She too rose from her bed, in need of an after-work shower. She entered the bathroom with a soft knock, and found Hermione with a towel tight about her body, the last mark of their parting kisses blatantly showing on her chest. Her hair was darkened by the water left from the shower, dark tendrils flowing down her back. Her skin still shone wetly, reddened slightly from the heat.

“Fleur?” Hermione asked softly, tightening the towel around her.

The Veela cleared her throat and broke her stare. “I’m sorry, I just needed to shower, too, I thought you had finished…” She took a step backwards, Hermione’s hand reaching out to prevent her escape. The blonde looked back at her, surprised. With a small step, Hermione brought herself close to the other, peering up at her with a curious expression.

“Your pupils are nearly fully dilated,” she said softly.

Fleur swallowed noisily. “I would imagine so…”

“Is there a reason for that?”

“I just, um,” She had to pause to clear her throat. “I was just remembering the night before you returned to Hogwarts,”

“What about it?” The dark hazel flashed with mischief.

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Fleur grumbled, looking away. The Gryffindor took the other’s chin in her hand, capturing her gaze again and held it firmly.

“Elaborate.” She commanded, her voice drawling lowly.

And she did. She recounted nearly every touch, every kiss, and every breath they had shared that night. Hermione felt her shiver, but never broke eye contact. She watched as the blue of her iris became engulfed with the dark circle of her pupil. In the dim light, the Veela’s eyes were dark, her breaths came shallow as she continued to speak. Hermione’s own deep hazel was soon lost to their pupils as well, each memory vivid in her mind as Fleur recounted them.

She pressed a hard, swift kiss to the blonde’s mouth, the movement surprising them both as Fleur fell back against the door, Hermione pressed against every limit of the other’s body. Her hands tangled in the long, blonde tresses, her mouth claiming the Veela as her own.

Fleur whimpered under her hands, completely at her mercy. The lioness took full advantage of the other’s helplessness, freeing her lips for the moment to ravish her neck with her teeth. A low groan sounded from the Veela’s throat, her hands flattening against Hermione’s back, pulling her closer.

Without warning, she pulled away, her eyes dark as they met Fleur’s.

“Enjoy your shower, dear,” She drawled, slipping out of the bathroom silently.

The Veela stood rooted to the floor for several minutes. She studied her own reflection in the mirror, skin flushed and hair tussled, her eyes wide and fully dilated. With quick, jerky movements, she undressed and stepped into the spray. The water was hot and fogged the glass as it collected, turning the Veela’s skin red as it ran over her body.

For several, long minutes, she stood there, calming herself. When her heart stopped trying to free itself from its cage, she washed her hair slowly, conditioned it, and drew the soap bar over her body quickly. When she stepped out of the shower, steam rolled off her body, the tile cold beneath her feet. She dressed quickly, brushed her teeth, and dried her hair with her towel before returning to her bedroom.

Her heartbeat picked up again as she took in Hermione’s form beneath her blankets, and drew a deep breath. She tidied the bedroom quickly, throwing dirty clothes and towels into the basket before crawling into bed with the lioness, her heart fluttering wildly. When she rolled over to snuggle against the Veela, her eyes were still dilated against the light in the room.

Again, Fleur forced her lungs to stretch to the limits of their cage, exhaling in a slow manner. Hermione looked pleased.

“Please, don’t do that again,” Fleur murmured softly.

The lioness’s eyebrow quirked upwards. “You seemed to enjoy it,” Her voice was not condescending, merely observant.

“And I did, far too much,” Fleur looked away, color racing to her cheeks. “I don’t want to risk pressing things too far, and if this is about Umbridge—”

“It’s only partially about Umbridge,” Hermione huffed, embarrassed but also irritated with herself. “I’m Gryffindor. That means proud and stubborn. I’ll be damned if some toad the Ministry sent to nanny us will tell me who I can and cannot mate with.”

Words failed the Veela for a moment. “I understand that, but if you want to finish the seal, I’d rather we finish it without a thought to her. It’s rather unattractive,” she earned a hearty chuckle from Hermione for the jest.

“I’m still not ready for that anyway,”

“Could’ve fooled me—ow!” Fleur protested as a sharp elbow found her ribs.

“I just missed you, and I wanted to see what you looked like in the light, since I didn’t get to really _see_ you on our last night in Number 12.”

“You wanted to see me aroused?” Her only answer was a dark blush upon the other’s cheeks. She tightened her arms about the other witch. “My dearest Hermione, you’ll be seeing much more than that, if you keep up this behavior and that’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid doing prematurely.”

Hermione hid her face under the Veela’s chin. “I know. And that’s what makes it so appealing. We can’t yet, but it’s fun, teasing you,”

Fleur leaned forward and bit the Gryffindor’s exposed collarbone gently, reviving the mark she’d previously left there. “Two can play at that game, love.” She growled, pulling away, although Hermione’s hands were unwilling to allow her leave. She chuckled and refused her any more attention, instead curled her arms around the lioness.

Hermione sighed heavily, slightly frustrated, but satisfied with resting in the other’s arms. They lay, fitted against one another like puzzle pieces, curving against each other in an embrace of love and warmth. They whispered softly together in the darkness like they had so long ago, their voices growing softer as the night drew on.

 

Hermione woke early the next morning, turning tiredly into her pillows and taking a deep breath. A particular scent filled her lungs with the breath. It was sweet and wild, like the forest after rainfall, and somehow feminine, blended with vanilla. _Fleur._ She sat up, stretching deliciously. The morning was very young, the window was dark and the smell of bacon wafted into the room. Rubbing her eyes, she blinked several times, getting out of the warm bed. She stumbled into the kitchenette where Fleur was busily scrambling eggs.

Hermione watched closely, bemused. The blonde had tied her hair up on the crown of her head so it fell down to her shoulders in a cascade of blonde waves. The apron she’d worn during her shift the previous night was secure round her waist, now splotched with grease. She still wore her favorite flannel pajamas, and a loose tank top, the long muscles of her arms contracted and relaxed as she completed various tasks as she cooked. Hermione found herself staring at the blonde, watching her body as she moved with fluid grace.

The Gryffindor approached silently, slipping her arms around the Veela’s waist, beneath the apron, while her lips peppered her exposed shoulder with kisses. Fleur gave a small jump and a gasp, surprised by the unexpected but certainly not unwelcome touches. Hermione smiled against her skin, biting her girlfriend’s shoulder gently, rubbing circles into her hips with her fingertips.

“You didn’t have to make me breakfast, love,” she whispered softly.

“I thought it’d be nice,” the blonde returned. “This way, you can catch a little power nap while everyone else is eating.” Hermione rolled her eyes, but thanked the other witch for the effort and thought. Fleur took the skillet of eggs and spooned them onto their plates, taking the dirtied dishes to the sink and set a sponge to scrubbing.

The two sat and ate together, chatting happily as their troubles had yet to be remembered. Fleur’s neck now boasted a reddened splotch of color, and upon discovery, blended with her angry and embarrassed blush when she exclaimed how she was supposed to report to work in a few hours.

“Why cover it?” She asked after breakfast had been cleared and the two stood in the bathroom, trying to find the best way to conceal the bruise. “This way, everyone will know you’re mine.” Her eyes glinted in the dim light, mischief faceted in them.

“Hermione, I just can’t go around parading with a mark like this on my neck! You’ll have to be more careful next time, or at least choose place more easily covered.”

Hermione chuckled, and gave the Veela a final kiss while she dabbed concealer on her neck. The Gryffindor turned and dressed in the clothes she had worn the previous night, humming softly to herself. She was just buttoning the last button when Fleur entered the room with a cup of tea. Hermione took it gratefully, and found it was a touch too sweet for her taste, but welcome all the same.

She leaned against the blonde, and together they looked out the window, watching the clouds roll in, the sun bleeding light on the little village.

“I hate to say you should get going, but I wouldn’t want you to get caught in the rain,” Fleur whispered softly.

The lioness sighed and turned in her arms. “I know. I wish I didn’t have to,”

Fleur kissed her forehead gently. “You can always return, you know.” She felt Hermione smile against her chest.

“I think I might,” she murmured with softly. Fleur escorted Hermione to Honeyduke’s, and kissed her cheek in farewell, the two reluctant to part. With a small smile, Fleur tugged Hermione’s coat tighter around her, rubbing her cold nose over the other’s for a final time.

“I’ll see you soon. Feel free to write as often as you wish,”

The lioness smiled and snuggled deeper into her cloak against the morning chill and nodded before turning into the sweets shop, and making her way back into the castle.


	5. The Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Well, sexy fluffy stuff is beginning to come up. Yayyyy~ And so is the school's rebellion against Umbridge. I hope you enjoy!  
> Much love,  
> RC

Several days after Hermione’s first sneak-out to Hogsmeade, and after the anger over the _Daily Prophet’s_ article of Rita Skeeter’s latest novel on Dumbledore had been dubbed an overnight success, the three sat in the Common Room attempting to put a dent in their mountain of neglected homework, in Harry and Ron’s case, or to complete their homework for day, in Hermione’s. The lioness had long since finished her own, and had settled in to read over Harry’s and Ron’s work. It always surprised the other two; how she could take twice as many subjects as they did, as well as her own additional dabblings in various other studies and reading, keep up with her homework, keep them on top of their own homework, her Prefect duties, all while maintaining a stable relationship _and_ getting at least seven hours’ of sleep each night.

Those feats had always amazed them, especially the ease the lioness seemed to accomplish them with, and even struck within them a deep envy. Of course, if they had the ability to manage time as she did, they wouldn’t spend it reading or studying, but ideally playing Quidditch, while procrastinating more than they already did.

“Harry,” Hermione murmured softly, uncertain of how to approach the subject she was so afraid of.

“Yes?” The wizard asked, finishing his current sentence before meeting her gaze. She took a moment to study him, and her heart sank. The school year had worn away at him, the stares and rumors and friend-turned-enemy reality had robbed his green eyes of the light that had been so bright before. He looked distraught and pained, terribly pale and under-nourished. He certainly hadn’t been getting enough sleep or food, and it was wearing away at his body and his mind.

“I have something to ask of you,” she started slowly, locking her eyes on his.

He seemed to raise his defenses, calculating her uncertainly. “All right. What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking very hard lately, and I think it’s time for drastic measures. Umbridge is _not_ giving us what we need to pass our O.W.L.s, and there’s only one solution I can think of.”

Harry seemed interested now, even Ron had perked up his ears to listen.

“I think it’s time for us to teach ourselves defensive magic.”

Harry nodded his agreement. “That’s all well and good, and I agree, but who will teach us?”

She looked up at him with a small, coy smile. “You, Harry.”

The wizard was silent, and exchanged a glance with Ron, who seemed to deem it a viable idea. “No, there’s no way. What the hell can _I_ do? People hate me, people don’t believe me, why would they want me to teach them?”

“Harry, I know what it sounds like, but please we don’t have a choice. It’s the only chance we have.”

“What about Fleur? She’s far more advanced than me, she probably knows what she’s doing, she’d be brilliant—”

“I’ve already spoken to her, Harry.” Hermione sighed, her eyes pleading him to understand. “She said she’d be happy to help, but there’s no way she could make it to every lesson. She’s have to cut back on her hours, and she can’t afford that right now, don’t ask me to explain, it’s a long story.”

“But, still I’m not a _teacher,_ Hermione.”

“But you’re the best in our year at defensive magic! If anyone knows defensive magic, it’s _you!”_

“Please, Hermione, you’ve beaten me in every test—”

“No, Harry, I haven’t,” she said quietly. “You destroyed me in our third year—the only year we both took the test and had a proper teacher, but this is goes beyond tests and scores. Look at what you’ve _done_ with defensive magic.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yeah!” Ron spoke up excitedly. “Let’s see, first year, you saved the stone from You-Know-Who,”

“But that wasn’t—”

“Second year, you killed a bloody basilisk and destroyed Riddle.”

“If Fawkes hadn’t turned up—”

“Third year, you produced a Patronus Charm and fought off a hundred dementors.”

“But if it wasn’t for Hermione and the time-turner—”

 “Yes, it’s true you’ve had help over the years,” Hermione spoke up, “But you still won’t be alone, we’ll always be with you to help with what we can, even with the potential teaching thing. Please, Harry. This is the _only_ way I can fathom that can prepare us for—” she took a breath. “This is the only thing that can prepare us for Voldemort.” It was first time she’d uttered the name, and she did so without shiver or stutter. Her eyes burned with a fierce gleam, trapping Harry in their bright, endless depths. They had narrowed, as if the name itself was an accepted challenge, ready to draw her wand and fight it with everything she had. But she needed more. She needed practice. She needed an arsenal of powerful spells and hexes, and in order to build that arsenal, she needed a proper teacher. She’d given him so much help over the years, it was only fair that he return the favor, at least give it a try.

Wordlessly, he studied her, noticing for the first time that her right iris had a small patch of green near her pupil, intermingling with the gold ring encircling it. He nodded once, and she trapped him in her arms, squeezing him against her chest. He hugged her back, his fingers tangling in her bushy mane clumsily, but she only laughed as Ron helped free her. She positively glowed with newfound vigor, as if her faith in humanity had been restored. She would _learn_ , she could brandish her wand and summon powerful magic and sharpen her intellect so that she could flatten any and all threats that stood in her way. She looked liberated, color high on her cheeks, her pupils dilated against the light in excitement.

“We’re actually doing this,” she murmured. “We’re fighting back.”

Harry, at her words, felt pride swell in his own chest, and he fell to his homework like it was a lifeline. He completed his work, Hermione checking it as he did, before the first hour of the next day. Ron had also completed most of his assignments, and promised to finish the drawing of the bowtruckle during breakfast.

Between the essay checks and small conversation, the lioness started sending messages to Fleur, via the fire charm she’d been taught. The Veela was thrilled that Harry had agreed with their plan, and they began devising a time and place for the meetings, sharing and inquiring ideas of the boys. Harry still seemed reluctant, but participated readily, as eager to fight against the High Inquisitor as much as the lioness herself.

“What about the Hog’s Head, for the first meeting, just to see what everyone’s got to say? Hardly any, if any, students go in there, so there won’t be uninvited ears listening in. What do you think?”

 “That’s the first weekend in October, isn’t it?” Ron asked.

Hermione got up and inspected the bulletin board, and with a scowl, ripped down another flyer advertising the Weasley twins’ latest version of Skiving Snackboxes. “Yes, it is,” she confirmed, taking her seat again. “Ron, you’ve got to talk to your brothers about this or I will be forced to,” She scolded, throwing the ad into the hearth.

“I will, I promise, I just…” he trailed off mumbling. She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck tiredly. “We can sort out the details of it later, tomorrow perhaps, but I really must get on to bed. You’re both getting much better at your essays; five years of my correcting and tutoring later,” She chuckled, gathering her things and going up into the girl’s dormitory.

Once there, with all her things packed away neatly and clothed in Fleur’s shirt, she flicked her wand to check if the blonde had sent her anything in return. She had, and Hermione read the short note with a smile, wishing Fleur sweet dreams and a restful slumber.

 

* * *

 

The following days passed easily; Hermione had taken to her silencing potion as if it were a drug, and coerced Harry to do the same, insisting it would be for the better. She was correct, as per usual, and Harry had avoided what was sure to be another detention. Umbridge almost seemed saddened at the prospect, but kept her composure even as she took no victims.

It was late in the evening when Hermione heard a knock at her door. When she opened it, the confusion written on her face was instantly replaced by unrestrained happiness. The grabbed the blonde and drew her inside, covering her face with kisses.

“What are you doing here, Fleur?” She asked breathlessly between kisses. Even though the Veela lived just a short distance away, it had been at least two weeks since they’d seen one another. Hermione’s homework and Prefect duties had kept her busy, and a coworker of Fleur’s had contracted a nasty virus, leaving her to pick up the extra hours she so desperately needed.

“Well, since you’ve been so busy, I’m not surprised you don’t know,” she jived, her tone lilting and playful.

“Know what?” The lioness asked, her brow knit in question.

“What day is today?”

“Tuesday,”

“Tuesday the…?”

“Eighteenth…?”

Fleur smiled brightly, and from her bag, produced a small picnic basket, which she enlarged with her wand. “I thought, since we couldn’t celebrate together tomorrow, we’d do it tonight, and I’d get to wake up next to you for your birthday,” Hermione clasped a hand to her forehead, completely surprised at her own ridiculousness.

“Fleur, you didn’t have to anything,” she started, pulling the other closer for another kiss.

“Oh, but I did. It’s nothing too special, but I thought you would enjoy it.”

Hermione was thrilled, and removed her blankets from her bed and set them out on the floor, almost pretending they were outside under the sun together. Fleur sat next to her, and rummaged through the basket, selecting a few items from it. The first was a bottle of wine, and two glasses soon followed. The Gryffindor, remembering how she’d come to enjoy the Delacour wines, eagerly took to her glass, sipping and sighing in happy remembrance. Despite her prefect standing, she allowed herself the selfish luxury of wine and relished it.

Fleur filled her own glass, remembering when she’d received it from Dumbledore, the middle-man in delivering the gift from her grandmother in congratulations on the recognition of her mate. She shared the memory with Hermione, who found it entertaining and all too like her Headmaster’s mannerisms. After their first glass, Fleur reached into the basket again and retrieved a box of chocolates, authentic Swiss chocolates that melted in Hermione’s mouth. She readily shared with the other, insisting that she had done far too much for such a simple occasion. The blonde only laughed, dismissing the notion, and pulled another, final gift from the basket. It was a very handsome glass pen, swirls of red and gold color lined the inside of the stem. It curved elegantly at the base, the perfect contour for Hermione’s hand. The point was sharp and resembled a tapered bulb, sure to grant the same mark every time, unlike a quill, whose ink could run out in unexpected blotches.

With it, she received a well of black ink, also sealed away in a glass container. Excitedly, Hermione rushed to her desk to try it out on a scrap piece of paper, and laughed with glee when she saw the flawless marks as she scribbled. Even in her messiest hand, the words were still legible, so sharp and concise the point was.

“Fleur, you really didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” she murmured, placing the pen back in its sleek black case.

“It was hardly trouble, love,” the Veela murmured in return. “I wish I could do more, actually,” Hermione snuggled close against her, feeding her another piece of chocolate before she pressed a long kiss to her cheek.

“But you didn’t have to. Wishing me a happy birthday would have been plenty,”

The blonde nodded and swallowed the last of the chocolate, wrapping an arm snugly about the other. “Even so, I would do it again without second thought. Next year, it’ll be better, but I did what I could, given Umbridge’s presence here. Perhaps dinner, and a picture show? Or the opera?” Hermione’s eyes lit up before she shook her head, insisting that it wasn’t necessary. “The opera it is then,” Fleur chuckled, kissing the girl firmly.

“Fleur Isabelle Delacour!” Hermione chided softly, sipping at her wine again. She rested her head on the other’s shoulder, sighing into her form. “You really mustn’t spoil me, you have other things to worry about.”

“I do, but I have to treat you, as well. I hope this is acceptable,”

“Don’t be silly, Fleur,” Hermione murmured. “It’s far more than I expected. Thank you,”

The Veela chuckled, pleased. “Anything for you, Hermione,” The two lapsed into content silence, and swirled the wine about in their glasses. “So, Harry agreed to teach defensive magic?”

“Yes, he did,” Hermione sighed. “And he’s managed to stay out of detention; I’ve resorted to a silencing potion in order to keep us both in line, you see.”

A soft rumble sounded from Fleur’s chest. “I don’t blame you. I’ll be more than happy to do what I can, just tell me the time and place and I’ll be there. Any ideas of where these lessons will take place?”

“None as of yet. I’m sure we’ll find something, though. We have to.”

“What about to tell others that a meeting will be taking place?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too. The Dark Mark burns whenever Voldemort calls a meeting, but instead of something that terrible, I’m trying to think of something else along the same lines. Fleur? What is it?”

The Veela was staring at her with surprise written into her features. “You said his name,” She murmured softly.

The lioness blushed slightly. “I figure fear of him gives him more power of us. I won’t allow him or anyone else the pleasure or satisfaction of frightening me with so little as their name.”

Fleur took the other into her arms tightly, her wine neglected on the floor an arm’s length away. Her fingers plunged into the dark auburn tresses, her lips pressing against her temple, her words hot against the other’s skin.

“My clever, clever girl,” she murmured. “My brave lioness.” She captured Hermione’s lips in her own, reveling in their heat and surprise. When she drew back, it was only for a moment before she continued planting kisses on her cheeks and neck and hair, so abundant in number and so quickly she earned soft laughter from the other. When their eyes finally met, the deep blue stared into dark hazel, soft and loving in the dim light. They were full of happiness and joy, unprecedented by any amount Hermione had ever seen before.

She caught the Veela’s lips again herself, still tasting the wine on them. She kissed her tenderly, with great passion despite her gentle touch. “Nothing can keep me frightened for long, love,” She murmured softly. She frowned as she thought better of it, but gave no voice to the thought.

Fleur smiled as she kissed her forehead, then turned her thoughts back to the pervious task. “Well, I agree with avoiding the brutality of marking them, besides, that’d make them easy targets and tie them directly with what I’m sure will become a sin to be affiliated with,” she rolled her eyes in annoyance at the thought. “You’ll need something subtle, something common, something everyone could access easily…”

“What about a Galleon?” Hermione piped, easily turning her thoughts in accordance with the blonde’s. “One that grows warm when we need to have a meeting? Like the Dark Mark, but not so hot it’ll burn?”

“Won’t it be warm anyway, if it’s in one’s pocket long enough?”

Hermione scowled. “Perhaps I could charm it so that it’s always cold, and then warms when needed?”

Fleur nodded. “That could work. But what if someone spends it?”

“Well they’ll be fake Galleons anyway, I could make a subtle difference on them something very small. And since every coin has the serial number of the goblin that cast it, I could manipulate it so the number displays the date and time instead.”

“The brightest witch of her age,” Fleur murmured, reaching for her glass again and lifting it for a toast. Hermione rolled her eyes, but smiled happily, finishing her drink.

“Will you be staying with me tonight?” the Gryffindor asked softly, her eyes growing heavy.

“Would you like me to?”

A sigh filled the other’s chest. “Should the day ever come when I decline from that offer, it will be the day that Merlin shaves his beard. I have some of your pajamas in the bottom drawer; same ones I stole last year.”

Fleur chuckled, rising up from the floor and packed the wine bottle and glasses away in it again before she changed out of her jeans, still rather comfortable in the flannel button-up she’d worn. “In that case, I’ll have to sneak through the castle early in the morning which means we’d better get to bed.”

Hermione had finished half-making her bed when she turned mischievous eyes to the Veela. “In that case, we should have been in bed an hour ago,” She drew the other witch against her where she kneeled on her bed, seeking out her lips and pressing every line she could against the other. She felt the impressive amount of muscle flex under her hands where they rested on Fleur’s shoulders, and before she realized it, she was pinned beneath the Veela, her teeth skillfully reducing her to whimpers and breathless groans.

She ran her nails over the blonde’s back, drawing red lines in her wake despite the shirt she wore. With irritation, she pulled against the buttons holding it together, pleased when the halves came apart and Fleur did nothing to stop her. The Veela’s skin was warm and soft under her hands, weakening her resolve but strengthening her passion. She bore as much of Hermione’s skin as she could, growling lowly in the other’s ear when she saw her skin no longer bore testament to her laid claim. Hermione forced the Veela away, tugging her shirt over her head in quick, almost graceful manner, before she pulled the blonde back against her body.

The following growl that left Fleur vibrated against every bone in Hermione’s body. The brunette’s bare skin met the other’s where her button-up had been pushed aside, their hearts beating madly against their cages in attempt to meet the other. Had it not been for Fleur’s bra preventing a deeper intimacy, they might have succeeded.

The Veela’s teeth carefully but expertly nipped at the hidden triggers along Hermione’s neck, hunting down each and every one she knew of, and even found a new one at her clavicle. The brunette gasped in surprise, her hips actually lifting up to the Veela above her.

Fleur rumbled again, reigning in her passion despite Hermione’s objections. She pulled the blanket up to cover the Gryffindor’s bare chest after she’d detached herself from her. She remained sitting upright on the mattress, leaving her shirt unbuttoned, although there wasn’t much light to see by.

“Why did you stop?” Hermione asked softly, once her breathing had somewhat returned to normal.

“I… I didn’t want to,” she replied, “But I knew I should.”

“Why?” Hermione sounded hurt, and further concealed herself with the duvet. Fleur reached out with a gentle hand, stroking her cheek.

A deep blush flushed the Veela’s cheeks in embarrassment. “I…” She sighed heavily. “I’m not ready, Hermione.” She whispered the words.

Understanding dawned on the other’s face, and she took the hand at her cheek in her own. “Fleur, it’s all right,” she spoke softly, smiling in reassurance. “I should have asked first, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m so sorry, Fleur…”

“Don’t be silly,” the Veela chuckled weakly. “I was far too comfortable. It’s just… It’s hard to explain. I’m eager, but I’m still afraid, and I want us both to be ready together,”

“What are you afraid of? I won’t leave you, if that’s what worries you,” she continued to speak gently, opening her arms and drawing the other into them, shamelessly directing the Veela’s cheek to rest on her chest.

“No, it’s not that at all. You’re the only one who will ever see me for everything I am, and I want you to be sure before you bind yourself to me, and me to you,” she said quietly. “More than that, I want you to be completely comfortable with what you see, and if you’re not I swear, I’ll never hold an ill will towards you.”

Hermione sat up suddenly, the duvet slipping from her chest slightly. She cupped Fleur’s face in her palm, and took a long moment to study her eyes in the dim light. She saw unwavering honesty and love, a touch of fear that was over shadowed by a larger embarrassment. Her pride was still visible, but it was carefully guarded.

Without breaking her gaze, Hermione spoke. “I do not deserve you.” Fleur opened her mouth to protest, but she was silenced by deft, gentle lips. “Please don’t speak. You’ve been nothing but more than I could ever ask for or dream of. You’re nothing short of incredible and everything above it. You, your family, your morals, the things you’ve given me, _shared_ with me, I can’t ask for better, and sometimes, I feel like I can’t return it. I’ve studied you, watched you, I’ve seen that your acts towards other people are just as genuine as your acts towards me. I know it’s not a façade or an act to win my affections; there’s no way it could possibly be! I love you, Fleur Delacour. Nothing will ever change that,” Every word was spoken as if they were spun from glass. They were delivered with a soft, gentle voice, kind, smoldering eyes, and a warm, tender kiss.

“I love you, too, Hermione Granger,” Fleur murmured softly in return, looking through her lashed at the lioness. She lifted her hand, shaking slightly, and let it rest against her cheek, smiling as Hermione pressed against her, blinking slowly.

“Thank you for being honest with me,” She whispered, rubbing her nose against the Veela’s. “And please don’t feel embarrassed. It’s quite understandable. But in all sincerity, please don’t fear losing me. I promise you won’t.”

Fleur nodded, sniffling softly. Hermione drew back, trapping a running tear beneath her thumb gently. A question gleamed in her eyes, and it was answered before she could ask.

“It still gets to me, sometimes,” Fleur sighed, her eyes shining. “Just the fact that you tell me you love me, the fact that we lay like this, that I can kiss you whenever I please,” she nuzzled closer to the lioness, kissing her bare chest gently. “I don’t think I’ll ever truly get used to you, ‘Mione.”

A smile tugged at her lips with the use of her nickname. It sounded strange paired with Fleur’s voice, but only due to the fact it was the first time she’d used it. She wrapped her arms securely around the Veela, burying her nose in blonde tresses.

“So they’re happy tears?”

Fleur nodded silently against her, her eyelashes lightly tickling her skin each time she blinked. Wetness soon gathered there, and Hermione rubbed the blonde’s back gently.

“I suppose they’re acceptable, in that case,” she murmured. A deep sigh lifted the shoulders beneath her arms, and rushed out upon release.

“How far are you willing to go? For future reference, of course,” Hermione asked.

Fleur chuckled against her. “I don’t think I’ll be able to take much more than what we’ve done today. I’m eager, too, but I don’t feel that the time is quite right yet. However, I am _very_ comfortable laying with you like this.” She brought her hand up to rest on Hermione’s hip, gently tracing patterns there. “When did you become so bold? You’ve been pushing your previous limits as of late,”

Hermione relaxed against the Veela’s touch, nearly purring with pleasure. “I’m not sure. I keep thinking about it, about you, and I guess I wanted to see how comfortable I am, too, but it’s not like you can really see anything in this light,” She said, her eyebrows pulling together in thought. “Perhaps it’s just the unknown that entices me; but then again, that was my original argument against myself when I had that crush on you the beginning of last year,” she laughed.

“Oh? The unknown mysteries of the Veela culture lured you in first?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, even though Fleur couldn’t see. “That, and the fact that I was immune to your thrall while everyone else drooled over you. I wanted to understand why, then in the library…” she let herself trail off with a smile, for Fleur knew the story well.

“Ah, yes,” She kissed her gently. “How clearly I remember.” The Veela settled more comfortably, and sighed in contentment. With gentle hands, Hermione coaxed her button-up off one arm, leaving her back bare for her hands to explore. Goose flesh rose over her body, a shiver ran down her spine. The passion and excitement the lioness felt earlier had reduced to smoldering embers, happily content with resting alongside the Veela, bathing her in gentle affection. Fleur reached down to the floor suddenly, glancing at a pocket watch.

“Happy birthday, dearest,” she murmured, kissing the Gryffindor lightly on the lips.

Hermione chuckled against her soft lips, sighing happily. “Thank you,”

“I believe the pleasure is mine,” The Veela returned, biting at the other’s lip gently.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” long, deft fingers attacked the blonde’s bare abdomen, earning a screech of laughter from her. She fought back, and soon returned the torture to Hermione until they both were out of breath, lying flat on their back as their laughter dissolved into quiet giggles. The Gryffindor pulled her nightshirt back on, settling snugly against the Veela’s back where she lie on her side.

“I really enjoy this,” she murmured, nipping at the blonde’s shoulder.

Fleur hummed in assent, burrowing against the lioness. “It is different. I feel smaller this way, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling.” She pulled Hermione’s arms around her, planting kisses on the back of her hand and made a path along her arm as far as she could reach. With a long sigh, Fleur closed her eyes, and the two drifted off to sleep, chasing one another into their dreams.


	6. The Hog's Head

As planned, the three Gryffindors made their way into Hogsmeade, worrying over Sirius and the very real possibility that he could show up in the little village, since he’d followed the motley group into King’s Cross in form of Snuffles, against Moody’s warnings. Sirius had maintained a stony silence ever since he had appeared in the Common Room fireplace before Hermione’s birthday, when they told him not to return to Hogsmeade. It was for his own good and protection, they knew, but that wasn’t enough to rid Harry’s stir-crazy godfather from his restlessness.

Hermione, banishing her thoughts, positively lit up when she saw the Three Broomsticks come into view, quickening her pace in eager impatience to see her Veela. The blonde opened the door to the shop just as the lioness reached for the knob, and when recognition dawned on her face, she swept the other witch into her arms and twirled her round twice, kissing her gently in greeting. Ron blushed furiously, but looked away respectfully, while Harry laughed warmly at their freely given affection.

Fleur took the two boys in her arms as well, even though anyone with working eyes could see she was reluctant to release Hermione.

“How have the two of you been?” The Veela asked, glancing between them as Hermione’s fingers slipped through her own and they began to walk towards the Hog’s Head.

“Well, we’re alive,” Ron chuckled, “But barely. That Umbridge woman is driving us mad!”

Fleur managed a small smile. “So I’ve heard. I trust you haven’t needed a dose of Hermione’s silent tonic, have you?”

“Nah, unlike those two, I can control what I say and how I say it.”

“It’ll be a rainy day in Hell!” Harry retorted, elbowing the redhead in the side before asking Hermione to recall the anthology of phrases he’d let slip that certainly proved otherwise. She’d gladly provided, and laughed at their antics as they continued bickering. She sighed as her stomach throbbed from laughter, leaning against Fleur’s shoulder and looped her arm around her waist. The blonde witch wore a smile that rivaled any other, her eyes sparkled with delight and happiness. It filled her heart with joy to see Fleur so happy and carefree, to feel her warmth beneath her arm and against her side where they pressed together.

“You got off work early, then?”

Fleur shrugged. “Early enough to shower and change, though that doesn’t take long. Any idea how many people we’ll be seeing today?”

Hermione seemed reluctant to answer. “A couple of people, I haven’t an exact headcount.” Fleur nodded, and held the door of the pub open for Hermione until Ron insisted he take it.

Upon entering, Fleur could pick out several faces, and even more that she didn’t have names for. Fred and George stood together, with their friend Lee Jordan, a Gryffindor that had provided commentary during the Tournament the previous year. Ginny and skinny blonde boy sat, chatting quietly, though the boy didn’t look at all impressed. Luna Lovegood was idly studying the room through a pair of whimsical glasses, quite content to gaze around silently. Neville bounded up to them, beaming, blushing slightly when he saw Fleur.

“Hi, guys! We were wondering when the VIPs would show up,” he chuckled.

Harry rounded on Hermione, largely ignoring Neville’s greeting. “A couple of people, Hermione? This must be half of Hogwarts!” He spoke quietly, but bit off the words, barely concealing his irritation.

“They just want to know what you have to say!” She whispered back. “Don’t worry, I’ll speak to them first. Please don’t back out, I didn’t think we’d get so many,”

The man behind the bar had frozen in the middle of cleaning a glass with an old rag that appeared as though it’d never had a proper washing. Fred approached him, and after counting heads, ordered twenty-five butterbeers, taking coin from everyone in turn for their drink. The barman, still seeming shell-shocked, pulled dusty old bottles from below the bar and they were handed out in a queue-like manner until everyone had a beer. Ron pulled up more chairs, and finally everyone had been seated except for Hermione and Fleur, the latter of whom leaned against a wall, as there hadn’t been enough chairs, and silence stole over as all eyes turned to the Gryffindor.

She shrugged out of her jacket, adjusted her blouse, and chewed at the inside of her cheek, clearly unused to public speaking. She folded her hands together and nodded once before she opened her mouth to speak.

“I would just like to thank everyone for coming here, especially considering the circumstances,” the barman seemed offended, and she quickly continued. “Umbridge, of course, would not be not be please to find out that we all had this meeting, but it certainly couldn’t have happened at the castle. Anyway, I had the thought that instead of doing nothing and wasting our time, that it would be a good idea for those who want to study Defense Against the Dark Arts—I mean _really_ study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us”—(a few voices lifted up in agreement, offering their thoughts quickly, burning through the rest of Hermione’s nerves and bringing a smile to her mouth)—“because no one in their right mind would consider that Defense Against the Dark Arts. I thought it would be good, and at this point necessary, to take matters into our own hands, by learning to defend ourselves properly, not solely in theory, but with the real spells—”

“You want to pass your O.W.L. too though, I bet?” said Michael Corner.

Hermione did not hesitate to answer. “Of course I do! But what I want more than that—yes, even more than a good mark in that O.W.L.—I want to be properly trained in defensive magic, because,” she paused and drew a great breath. “Because Lord Voldemort is back.” The reaction was nothing short of expected, as gasps and shudders were given at the name. Even as she’d uttered it, Hermione stood straighter, prouder, her chin lifting up as others fought to make themselves smaller, trying to hide from the name. A strangled yelp sounded from one corner of the room, where its maker tried to conceal it as a cough.

“Where’s the proof You-Know-Who’s back?” A blonde Hufflepuff asked in a rather aggressive tone.

“Dumbledore—”

“Dumbledore believes _him,”_ said the boy, throwing his chin at Harry.

Fleur pushed off the wall hard, and strode to Hermione’s side, her eyes slightly narrowed. “Do not interrupt her.” She rumbled lowly. The gathered mass, apparently, had not noticed her, for her sudden appearance at the lioness’s side seemed to surprise several students. “And why shouldn’t Dumbledore believe Harry? I do. I was with him. I was attacked by Crouch who was impersonating Moody; I was Stunned by Viktor Krum who, at the time, was under the Imperious Curse that had been cast by Crouch; I heard Crouch refer to Voldemort as the Dark Lord.” She ignored the gasps and other varying sounds of protest, keeping her eyes sternly trained on the boy. “Or have you missed those little notions?” Harry felt gratitude surge forth in his chest. Fleur came to his side again, unbidden, just as she had when his name came from the Goblet, sharing the pain and scrutiny with him shamelessly. 

Hermione gripped Fleur’s arm beside her, silently thanking her for the support.

“Who are you anyway?” Ron asked from Harry’s side.

“Zacharias Smith,” the boy answered, drawing his eyes away from the Veela. “Even so, I think we have a right to know _exactly_ what makes _them_ say he’s back.”

Harry stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Everyone knows what happened.” Hermione stepped aside, pulling Fleur with her, allowing Harry the center stage. “To glorify it would be an insult to his memory.” He locked his eyes on the boy, refusing to look at Cho where she sat, making impressions of her fingerprints in the dust on her bottle. “What Dumbledore has said is true, and he told the whole school last year. If you didn’t believe him, you don’t believe me, and I’m not going to waste an afternoon trying to convince anyone.”

“All Dumbledore told us last year was that Cedric Diggory got killed by You-Know-You and that you brought his body back to Hogwarts. He didn’t give us details or tell us how exactly—”

“If you’ve come to hear what it looks like when Voldemort murders someone, I can’t help you.” Harry interrupted, his temper flaring, his voice a pitch short from a snarl. “I do not want to remember what happened to Cedric, much less talk about. So if that’s what anyone’s here for, you might as well clear out.” He turned his eyes to Hermione, angry that she’d had the idea, even more irritated that he’d allowed himself to be talked into it. Despite his words, no one moved. She spoke again without meeting his gaze, addressing the mass of gathered students before her.

“So, as I was saying, if anyone is interested in learning defensive magic, we need to discuss how often we’re going to meet, and where.”

“Is it true you can produce a Patronus?” A girl asked softly, wearing her hair in plait down her back, look up at Harry.

“Yeah,” he replied, still defensive.

“A corporeal Patronus?”

“Er—you don’t know Madame Bones, do you?”

The girl smiled. “She’s my auntie. I’m Susan Bones. She told me about your hearing. So it’s true? You make a stag Patronus?”

“Blimey, Harry!” Lee exclaimed, looking very impressed. “I never knew that!”

“Yeah,” Fred spoke up. “Mum told Ron not to spread it around. Said he gets enough attention as it was.”

“Well, she’s not wrong,” Harry murmured; the students nearest to him laughed. Several other questions were asked about his feats, everything from the Stone his first year, and the Triwizard Tournament the previous year. Most of these feats Fleur had only read about, doubting in their integrity due to the journalists, but found herself pleasantly surprised with their consistency.

“Yes, I did those things, but not without help.” Harry spoke up, silencing the group. “Hermione, Ron, Professor Lupin, Fleur; I’ve had loads of help.”

“Are you saying you’re trying to weasel out of teaching us? Zacharias asked.

“Here’s an idea,” Ron growled, rising from his chair. “Why don’t you shut your mouth?”

“Well, we all turned up to learn from him, and now he’s saying he can’t really do any of it,”

“That’s not what he said, perhaps you should listen closer.” Snarled George, brandishing a long, lethal-looking metal instrument.

“George and I would be happy to clean your ears out, if that’s the problem.”

“MOVING ON!” Hermione thundered, taking control of the bubbling mayhem. “The point it, are we agreed we want to take lessons from Harry?

There was a murmur of agreement throughout the room.

“Right,” Said Hermione. “Well, next order of business is the when and where our meetings will take place. I really don’t think there’s any point in meeting less than once a week. Any ideas?”

Several people expressed their worries over Quidditch practice, to which Hermione amended as quickly as possible.

“I’m sure we’ll find a night that works for everyone, just bear in mind that this is far more important. Not because of our O.W.L.s,” She said, looking pointedly at Ernie Macmillan, who’d just opened his mouth to speak. “But because of the very real dangers that wait for us.”

“Why did the Ministry send someone like Umbridge?” Someone piped up.

“Yeah, how come they don’t want us to learn defensive magic?”

Hermione drew a breath. “They’re under the ridiculous impression that Dumbledore is assembling an army, us, and concocting a plan to mobilize us to overthrow the Ministry and take the position of Minister.”

Everyone seemed stunned at the news, and looked around at one another in disbelief. “They think he’s building an army of kids? Students?” Someone asked.

Hermione nodded. “I know. And we’ll be the ones paying for it if we don’t learn any real magic. Which brings me back to the previous point. Where can we meet? Any ideas?”

“The library?” Katie Bell suggested.

“I can’t see Madam Pince being too chuffed with us doing jinxes in the library,” Harry said, shaking his head.

“An unused classroom?” Dean offered.

“Yeah,” Ron murmured. “McGonagall let Harry use hers when he was practicing for the Tournament last year,”

“I don’t think she’ll be so accommodating this year, Ron,” Hermione said with a disappointed sigh. “Right, well, we’ll just have to figure something out in the meantime. Now, if everyone will write their name on this piece of parchment, I will send you a message telling you the time and place. But, I also think we should all agree that we shouldn’t shout about what we’re doing. So if you sign, you’re agreeing not to tell Umbridge—or anyone else—what we’re up to.”

Fred cheerfully took up a pen and the parchment, a queue forming behind him.

“Er…” Zacharias said slowly, unwilling to take the pen George was trying to pass to him. “I’m sure Ernie will just tell me when and where…” Ernie looked reluctant to sign the parchment as well, and glanced worriedly between the Gryffindors and the lone Veela in front of him. Hermione raised her eyebrows in question.

“I—well, we are prefects,” Ernie muttered. “And if Umbridge found this list, then I think we—”

“You honestly think I’d leave this lying around, Ernie?” Hermione asked testily.

“Oh, no, of course not, I just—I’ll sign,” he said quickly, taking the proffered pen and scribbled his name before forcing it into Zacharias’ hand. When everyone had signed, Fleur reached out to take both pen and parchment, but Hermione merely shook her head. The Veela looked puzzled, and Hermione answered unspoken questions in a gentle whisper. 

“You’re the only one who’s completely loyal to me, so much so, not even Vertiseurm will make you talk if it puts me in danger.” She winked. “Besides, if Umbridge does catch us, the last thing I want is you facing several lawsuits for indecent activities with schoolchildren under the High Inquisitor’s nose and command.” An eye roll finished her speech. Reluctantly, Fleur withdrew her hand, and nodded, instead weaving her fingers through Hermione’s as she finished packing

“Great meeting, guys,” Fred said, clapping Harry on the back. “Now, George, Lee, and I have some rather sensitive items to purchase, so we’d best be off,” He chirped, heading out the door with most everyone else.

“Well, I think that went rather well,” Hermione said with a smile, finishing her butterbeer.

“That Zacharias is going to be a problem, I’m sure,” Ron said, scowling.

“I don’t like him much either,” Hermione admitted. “Perhaps he’ll prove us wrong,”

“That’s likely,” Fleur muttered, looking worried. “I agree with Ron. We’ll have to keep an eye on him, for sure.”

Hermione considered silently as they exited the bar.

“So, Fleur, how are things going at work?” Harry asked, still adjusting his scarf.

“So far so good,” the blonde returned happily. “The pay isn’t much, but it’s worth it. Would any of you care for tea or something to eat?” She offered, and upon consensus, the four entered one of the small restaurants in Hogsmeade. They found a table, took off their outer layers against the warmth of the room, ordered drinks, and settled in.

“Still living above the bar?”

“I am!” She answered proudly. “However, I’m looking at a little cottage to rent in a few months. I’ll show you when we’re finished.” She thanked their waiter and took a sip of the drink she’d ordered.

“Do you have any idea of how we’re going to tell everyone about the meeting when we find a suitable room?”

“Well,” Hermione began, and recounted the idea she and Fleur had come up with on the eve of her birthday. “I suppose Fred and George might have fake Galleons available, I’ll have to ask.”

“They’ll charge you,” Ron said sadly. “Raised the price of Nosebleed Nougat three times when I asked them for it,”

“Ron!” Hermione whispered in disbelief. “You. Are. A. _Prefect!”_

“So are you, and now you’re the second-in-command of what we’re sure will be, if not already, an illegal operation.” Ron returned smugly.

“This is different,” she argued, while Fleur and Harry watched them bicker with amusement. “How can I even be second-in-command? Fleur will be helping Harry teach, not me.”

“You’re the brains of the operation, Hermione, and it was your idea.”

Fleur chuckled, directing their food to the respective patrons as it arrived, thanking the waiter again. Ron, once he saw the plate before him, fell silent, allowing Hermione the last word for the moment.

“You two never get tired of fighting, do you? How have you dealt with this for the past five years, Harry?”

The Gryffindor shrugged. “I dunno. Mostly I ignore them, and run in the opposite direction when they try to pull me into the fight,” He laughed, nudging Fleur.

They ate together happily, Fleur picked up the tab against Hermione’s wishes and reluctantly left the restaurant as a group. Fleur showed them the little villa she was considering, and instantly gained the approval of the other three.

When the sun began to set, the three Gryffindors were reluctant to return to the Hogwarts; Hermione very nearly spent the night with the Veela, until she was reminded of a particularly troublesome Prefect duty that waited for her return. She sighed heavily, and with a final parting kiss, trudged back to the castle.  


	7. The D.A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Just gonna post the next one now, because why not? Exams and graduation are coming up so I'll be busy for a while. Anyways, more suggestive sexual stuff, but no sex yet. Sorry guys. Few more chapters until that gets here. But it's getting closer! Ha. Terrible pun. It wasn't even intentional, but it's there now, so I'm leaving it. Have fun!  
> Much love,  
> RC  
> P.S.  
> Sorry to those who read this chapter earlier. Apparently, my copy/paste thing made a mistake and more than half the chapter was lost. I do sincerely apologize. It's fixed now!

The following week brought with it the birth of Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four. Hermione wasn’t at all surprised that the High Inquisitor had taken the liberty to disband any and all societies, organizations, teams, groups and clubs, including the Quidditch teams. While she was far from surprised, her worry exceeded any thought she’d given to this possibility. The _how’s_ pertaining to Umbridge’s knowledge of their meeting the past weekend worried her farther than any other. She herself had cast a nasty jinx on parchment, on which everyone who attended the meeting had signed, and should anyone have activated the hex by speaking of the matter, it certainly wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.

Upon reaching the Great Hall for breakfast, the lioness saw that no one who’d attended their meeting bore the mark of the jinx, but it was equally apparent that the latest Educational Decree had been posted in every House common room. It was by a streak of luck that the teachers didn’t notice how the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw Prefects seemed intent to speak to Harry, and even luckier that they failed to notice Hermione’s frantic gestures to convey a later discussion. 

The three of them expected to see Umbridge sitting in on their History of Magic class, but to their relief, they were greeted only by Professor Binns, whose droning lesson on giant wars was nearly dull enough to lull Hermione to sleep. She scribbled notes furiously, desperate to keep her eyes open, when a tapping at the window drew her attention. Hedwig was staring through the window at Harry, tapping the glass harder with her beak.

“Harry!” Hermione whispered, sharply jabbing him in the ribs.

“For the last time Hermione, I’m awake!” He murmured back, his brows pulling together when he saw her point. With a start, he crept to the window, sliding it open and admitting the owl. She hooted feebly, as if she were exhausted. Harry seemed incredibly worried, and stood upright, the snowy owl hidden behind his back.

“Professor, I’m not feeling well,”

“Not feeling well?” he repeated lazily, half-aware of his notes falling away from his eyes.

“No, sir, not at all well,” Harry said, taking a single step back. “So I think I’ll need to go to the hospital wing,”

“Yes,” Professor Binns murmured dreamily, “Yes, the hospital wing… off you go, then, Perkins…” Harry all but sprinted from the room, and as soon as the professor had returned to his notes, Hermione drew her wand and shrunk Harry’s things to fit inside her own satchel. The moment the bell rang, she and Ron all but sprinted from the room, in search of Harry on their way to Potions. He rejoined them a short distance away from the staffroom, a scroll clutched in hand.

“Is Hedwig okay?” Hermione asked as soon as he had fallen into step with her.

“She will be; Grubbly-Plank is healing her, and I spoke to McGonagall. She said to keep in mind that the channels of communication in and out of Hogwarts may be being watched. Isn’t that what Fleur said could happen?”

Hermione nodded, her eyebrows knit in thought. “She did… I wonder if someone had tried to intercept Hedwig? She’s never been hurt on a flight before… What did the letter say?”

“Yeah, who sent it?” Ron piped up.

“Snuffles,” he said, handing Hermione the scroll.

“Well, it’s not like they could have gleaned much of anything from this letter, Harry; unless they somehow listened in to our previous meeting,” Hermione murmured, reading the scroll. “Harry, if all communication in and out of Hogwarts is being supervised, he just as easily get into loads of trouble if Umbridge catches him in the fireplace!” she whispered.

                                                    

“Yeah, and if ‘same time, same place’ is the only clue she has, she’s bound to check everything,” Ron reasoned from Harry’s left.

A scowl marred the young wizard’s features. “Could you write to Fleur? There’s no way Umbridge can trace that spell, especially if her great-grandmother invented it. Could you tell her what’s going on and to tell Snuffles?”

Hermione considered silently for a moment, before shaking her head sadly. “I doubt she’ll have the time to do anything like that today, Harry, she’s working another double. If anything, she can get word to him not to chance it again; the best thing we can do is tell him of the danger as soon as he shows up. Not that he’d listen, of course…”

Harry nodded, leaving any other thoughts unspoken.

Ahead of them, Draco Malfoy was bragging loudly of how Umbridge had given Slytherin Quidditch team permission to reform almost instantly, loudly proclaiming his father’s dealings with the Ministry and teasing the Gryffindors of his thoughts on their own team’s restoration. 

Hermione clutched Harry’s arm as soon as his shoulders rolled back, stopping in her tracks to grab at Ron as well. “Don’t rise,” she muttered. “It’s what he wants.”

“If it’s a question of influence with the Ministry,” He continued loudly. “I don’t think they’ve got much of a chance. My father says they’ve been looking for an excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for years. As for Potter… he says it’s only a matter of time before they cart him off to St. Mungo’s,” his grey eyes turned to glare at the three of them, where they had continued to walk, giving him a berth of space for his own protection. “Apparently, they have a special ward for people whose brains have been addled by magic.” He then carried on to make grotesque faces, his eyes rolling into the back of their sockets, his tongue lolling from the corner of his mouth. The usual gang of cronies shook with laughter around him, and something slammed into Harry’s shoulder, knocking Hermione off-balance when he rocked against her.

“Neville, no!” Harry yelled, leaping forward to grasp Neville’s collar and dragged him away from the Slytherins, his jaw clenching, his hands clawing at the air in desperate attempt to free himself and continue his attack. Ron joined in the effort of hauling him away, back into the Gryffindor line as they filed into the dungeon.

Snape entered then, and cast a chilling glance over the three Gryffindor males. “Fighting, I see? Ten points from Gryffindor. Release Longbottom, Potter, or it will be detention.” Harry complied with a scowl and an apology to Neville, ignoring any question Ron or Hermione had on the issue.

Potions continued as it had for the duration of the term; Harry received no marks for his failure to concoct a potion to par with Snape’s expectations and instructions, and as a result was given even more homework. Umbridge had also joined the class to inspect Snape, which had been almost as much of an entertaining show as it was when she inspected McGonagall. Hermione knew that the exchanges between the two teachers had been what kept Harry’s attention throughout the lesson, but she made an effort to keep him on task, or at the very least make sure he was adding the correct ingredients at the right times. It had been to no avail, and later that evening, the three, again, sat in the Common Room, watching carefully as they mourned Quidditch practice (due to the fact that the High Inquisitor had insisted that she take a few days to think over her decision) and tried to focus on their homework.

This task was far easier to proclaim than to perform, as the Weasley twins were making quite a show out of their newly perfected Puking Pastilles. They seemed perfectly at ease, biting out an orange chew before spilling the contents of their stomachs, then forcing the corresponding purple end to cease the vomiting. Hermione glowered in her chair, disgust written across her features.

“Why don’t you stop them?” Harry asked irritably, looking up from his essay.

“I have no legal grounds to do so; I can’t use my Prefect standing to keep them from eating worms any more than I can from eating those foul sweets.” The young entrepreneurs began taking gold as it was eagerly offered, orders placed hurriedly. It was well past midnight when the counting of acquired gold was finished, and they finally retired to their dormitories, their box of Galleons rattling as they went.

As soon as the door had closed, a cough emitted from the fireplace. Instantly, Hermione fell to her knees, telling Sirius of the threat Umbridge posed. He rolled his eyes dismissively, saying something witty, before turning his attention on to the boys.

“How’re things?” He asked.

“Not good. The Ministry’s forced another decree, which means we’re not allowed to have Quidditch teams—”

“—or secret Defense Against the Dark Arts groups?”

“How did you know about that?” Hermione asked, shocked.

“You’ll want to choose your meeting places more carefully,” said Sirius, grinning broadly. “The Hog’s Head, I ask you…”

“It was better than the Three Broomsticks!” Hermione said defensively. “That’s always packed with people—”

“—which means you’d have been harder to overhear.” Sirius interrupted. “You and Fleur have a lot to learn…”

“Who overheard us?” Harry asked, while Hermione’s cheeks flushed with blush.

“Mundungus, of course. He was the witch under the veil.”

“That was Dung?” Ron asked, stunned.

“What was he doing there?” Harry inquired.

“What do you think he was doing? Keeping an eye on you, of course.”

“I’m still being followed?” Harry said angrily.

“Yeah, you are, and just as well, isn’t it, if first thing you’re going to do on your weekend off is organize an illegal defense group?’

Sirius looked neither angry nor worried, but was looking at Harry with immense pride. This observation, studied closely by Hermione, unsettled her greatly, and she was unsure as to why.

“Why was he hiding from us?” Ron asked, disappointed. “We’d have liked to see him.”

“He was banned from the Hog’s Head twenty years ago, and that barman’s got a long memory. We lost Moody’s spare Invisibility Cloak when Sturgis got arrested, so Dung’s been dressing as a witch a lot lately… Anyway, Ron—I’ve sworn to deliver a message to you from your mother.”

Ron’s expression turned apprehensive at the uttering of the words. “Oh yeah?”

“She says on no account whatsoever are you to take part in an illegal secret Defense Against the Dark Arts group. She says you’ll be expelled for sure and your future will be ruined. She says there will be plenty of time for you to learn to defend yourself later and that you are too young to be worrying about that right now. She also” — Sirius’s eyes turned to the other two — “advises Harry and Hermione not to proceed with the group, though she accepts that she has no authority over either of them and simply begs them to remember that she has their best interest at heart. She would have written it all down and sent it to you, but if the owl had been intercepted, you’d all be in very big trouble.”

There was a pause in conversation as Ron fiddled with a hole in the hearthrug, Hermione pulled Crookshanks into her lap and Harry picked at his fingernails nervously.

“So you want me to say I won’t take part in the defense group?” Ron spoke up softly.

“Me? Certainly not!” Sirius exclaimed, looking surprised. “I think it’s an excellent idea!”

“You do?” Harry asked, his heart lifting.

“Of course I do! D’you think your father and I would’ve lain down and taken orders from an old hag like Umbridge?”

“But last term, all you did was tell me to be careful and not to take risks—”

“Last year all the evidence was that someone inside Hogwarts was trying to kill you, Harry!” Sirius said impatiently. “This year, we know that there’s someone outside Hogwarts who’d like to kill us all, so I think learning to defend yourselves properly is a very good idea! Anyway,” he continued, drawing a deep, calming breath. “How are you organizing this group? Where are you meeting?”

“We haven’t gotten that completely figured out yet…” Hermione said softly, scratching the tomcat behind his ears.

“How about the Shrieking Shack?”

“Well, Sirius, the only problem with that there were only four of you meeting there when you were at school, and you all transform into animals, and you had an Invisibility Cloak. Now, there’s twenty-nine of us, no one is an Animagus, and we wouldn’t need so much an Invisibility Cloak as an Invisibility Marquee.”

“Fair point,” Sirius murmured, looking slightly crestfallen. “There used to be a pretty roomy secret passageway behind that big mirror on the fourth floor, you might have enough space to practice jinxes there—”

“Fred and George told me it’s blocked,” Harry said. “Caved in or something.”

“Oh…” Sirius frowned. “Well, I’ll have a think and get back—” He stopped short, his expression alarmed and utterly shocked. He turned sideways, looking at the solid brick wall of the fireplace before he vanished from the embers.

“Siri—” Hermione started, before she too broke off and leapt up from the floor. The other two Gryffindors followed her lead and ran to the staircase that ascended to the dormitories when a hand appeared in the flames, grouping as though to catch hold on something; a stubby-fingered hand pawed at the coals, covered in ugly, old-fashioned rings…Hermione broke her stare, and dragged the others into the small hallway with her, determined to hide them all lest any other part of Umbridge’s anatomy appeared in the flames.

              

 

Several days later, with the prospect of Umbridge’s reading and resealing Harry’s letters immensely evident, there was little to brighten the moods of the three Gryffindor’s. Fleur had passed on Hermione’s earlier request, and agreed to play messenger between the Order and the three in question, should any news of great importance need transmitting. The Gryffindor Quidditch team was re-formed, but practice ended with the return of Harry and Ron soaked to the bone with rain, Harry’s scar throbbing in accordance with Voldemort’s innermost emotions, and a mountain of homework. Happier news came the following morning, after the reformation of the team, that Dobby knew the most ideal location in whole castle for their illegal defensive magic meetings.

Later that day, after telling Hermione and Ron of the location, the three set out to tell the others who’d attended the first meeting in the Hog’s Head the time and place to meet. After dinner, and the confirmation that Fleur would be able to attend, they slunk around the castle corridors, the Marauder’s Map clutched in Harry’s hand, searching for the door.

“How did he say we find the room?” Ron asked from Harry’s side.

“Just concentrate really hard on what we need while we walk past it three times.” He nodded, and together, they did.

Hermione was the first to open her eyes and when she did, a gasp broke the silence. There, before them, a highly polished door stood in the wall, its hinges and handles gleaming brass. Harry reached out, seized the handle, and opened the portal.

The walls were lined with wooden bookcases, filled with varieties of tomes on every defensive subject, the floor lined with cushions instead of chairs, and a number of shelves at the back of the room held a range of instruments such as Sneakoscopes, Secrecy Sensors, and a large, cracked Foe-Glass. Hermione ran to a book-laden case, running her fingers over the titles of the tomes. She drew a deep breath, shivering with delight at the fact that the knowledge she thirsted for was now beneath her fingertips, waiting to be etched into yet another wrinkle in her memory, dissected by her intellect, flushed out and studied again and again until she’d mastered every page the books held between their covers. Without care as to which book she chose, she pulled one from its home amongst the others, and settled in to the nearest cushion, tucking her feet firmly beneath her and her nose in the introduction.

She was lost in moments, the chatter of Harry and Ron melding into meaningless static behind her, easily overlooked as her mind focused on the words before her eyes, taking depth, color, and texture whereas Slinkhard’s book had hardly been worthy of being called a pillow. She felt her hair bristle when magic shot into her wand with the simple reading of a hex; her wand never released any curse, but seemed just as anxious to rebel and practice as she was when golden sparks emitted from the tip. She smiled, and continued reading. It wasn’t until a gentle weight had rested on her shoulder for a solid five minutes that she wondered what was there. Upon turning, she saw her Veela reading over her shoulder, a wide smile lifting the corners of her mouth. Hermione all but squealed as she threw herself more firmly against the other witch, nuzzling firmly into her neck with kisses and cheerful greetings.

“Well, hello there, amour,” Fleur murmured softly, gently nipping at Hermione’s exposed earlobe. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d notice I was here,” She chuckled, tightening her arms around the other. When she pulled back, she was thrilled by what she saw. The bright gleam of Hermione’s intellect was unrestrained and burned fiercely, every movement caught by her keen eye. No longer did the deep hazel ignore motions around her, but they studied each and every one, deciphering the cause, effect, and other possible outcomes for every movement. Her gaze was no longer burdened by the dead weight of apathy, but alive with a fire that rivaled the stars, challenging anything to stand in her way, for with this newly returned power, she was sure to overcome it with a few flicks of her wand. She glowed with vitality, with pride and fearlessness, even with the understood risks of her presence and participation with the group taken in the most serious of consideration.

Fleur kissed her, hardly caring that the other students were filling the room, unconcerned with their stares and whispers. When she pulled away, she found the lioness was unwilling to allow her leave and pulled her back for another, softer kiss before propping the neglected tome back on her knees, the two reading silently as others continued to arrive and as they asked questions about the room and the objects within.

It didn’t take long for Harry to call them to order, and it was with great reluctance that Hermione marked her page, and set the book aside.

“Well,” Harry began, pacing slightly before the audience as he addressed them while they sat, eagerly looking up at him. “I’ve been thinking about the sort of stuff we ought to do first—what, Hermione?” He asked, as her hand stood out amongst the gathered bodies.

“I think we ought to elect a leader, vote on it properly, make it formal and give the elected leader authority.”

“Harry’s leader,” Cho said at once, making Harry’s stomach flip backwards.

“All in favor?” Hermione asked, her hand still in the air.

“What about that Veela?” Zacharias Smith asked.

“She does have a name.” Hermione nearly growled. “And _Fleur_ ishere to assist Harry, not to take over the group, she does have other things to attend to, such as a career.” Fleur almost grimaced. Her little job at the Three Broomsticks was hardly a career, more like a little break from school and a new learning curve, but that would take far too long to explain at the current moment, though she was thankful Hermione had saved her the explanation. “She has years of advanced magic, which means she’ll be an even greater asset to those who may have problems with some spells by having practiced them longer and apprenticed under her own Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Beauxbaton’s.” Fleur cast her a disbelieving look as subtly as she could. _That_ was certainly a fib. It was true, she’d tutored younger students, those too young to be affected by her thrall, but she’d never apprenticed. What was Hermione playing at?

 “Alright, then,” Smith said, looking slightly crestfallen as his hand joined the others in favor of Harry’s leadership. The lioness looked smug as she took a hand count, nudging Fleur from her musings as her hand made twenty-eight.

“Er, right, thanks,” Harry managed, his face flushed a bright red. “Anyway— _what,_ Hermione?” He asked exasperatedly.

“I also think we ought to have a name. Any ideas?” She said brightly, still smug with herself.

“Can we be the Anti-Umbridge League?” Angelina asked hopefully. 

“Or the Ministry of Magic Are Morons Group?” Fred offered.

“I was thinking something more subtle, something that wouldn’t tell everyone what we’re up to, so we can refer to it safely outside of meetings.”

“The Defense Association? We can call it the D.A. for short.” Said Cho.

“Yeah, the D.A.’s good,” Ginny spoke up. “Only, let’s make it stand for Dumbledore’s Army because that’s the Ministry’s worst fear isn’t it?” there was a great murmuring of assent.

“All in favor of Dumbledore’s Army?” Hermione asked, rising to her knees to count hands again. “That’s a majority—motion passed!” She rose up from her cushion and pinned the parchment they all had signed up on the wall, and wrote DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY across the top in large letters.

“Right,” Harry continued as she took her seat again. “Shall we get to practicing then? I was thinking, the first thing we should do is _Expeliarmus,_ you know, the Disarming Charm. I know it’s pretty basic, but I’ve found it really useful—”

“Oh, _please,”_ Zacharias said, rolling his eyes and folding his arms. “I don’t think _Expelliarmus_ is exactly going to help us against You-Know-Who, do you?”

“I’ve used it against him,” Harry said rather quietly, his eyes glazing slightly in remembrance. “It saved my life last June.” Fleur bristled and rose from the floor, moving to stand beside Harry.

“It may have saved mine as well,” She spoke up from the lion’s right side. “Crouch nearly Stunned me, but I disarmed him before he could try to cast another spell. If you take their wand, you take their magic. Disarming spells, as simple as they are, can certainly save many lives, especially if the word behind the wand is deadly.” Smith’s mouth was hanging open stupidly, the rest of the room was silent.

“But,” Harry said after Fleur finished. “If you think it’s below you, you can leave.” His words were not mean, or sarcastic, or even sharp, but soft, genuine; a voice that did not want to be wasted on disbelieving ears. Zacharias did not move, and neither did anyone else.

“Okay,” Harry resumed, clearing his throat loudly. “I reckon we should divide into pairs, and practice.”

Fleur smiled reassuringly at him as his words were carried out, patting his back gently. “You did very well, Harry. It’ll get easier the more you do it,”

He sighed, smiling despite himself. “God, I hope so,” he chuckled. “Go save Hermione from Ron.” He suggested with a short laugh, pointing over to the pair, where Hermione’s spells easily hit their target, the redhead’s wand sailing obediently into her hand each time. She approached cautiously, taking Ron’s place in front of Hermione, a smug smile on her face.

Hermione met her eye, and raised her wand, bowing silently to the other witch who copied her action. The lioness sent the Disarming Charm with blinding speed, but it was easily deflected by the Veela.

“Shall we make this a little more interesting, love?” Fleur asked, never lowing her wand, where it was held loosely in her fingertips, but Hermione knew just how powerful those fingertips were, for even with the gentlest of caresses, they could make every muscle in her body clench with fervent expectations.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now, Fleur.” Hermione returned, forcing her earlier thoughts from her mind. “We could end up hurting someone.”

Fleur frowned, but nodded nonetheless. “That’s very true.” She sent the charm at the other with incredible velocity; Hermione deflected it the moment before it struck her. “I suppose we’ll have to use other methods then?”

“You don’t play fair, Delacour,” Hermione growled, a playful glint in her eye. “I guess we will have to resort to other methods in this practice. The art of distraction is most clever, indeed. But how can I distract you?” She hummed for a moment, then sent a flurry of identical charms at the blonde, each deflected in turn, but Hermione’s assault didn’t relent. “How about the thought of what I plan to do to you once I get you in my room?” The words were whispered, so lowly, no other person could hear, but with the Veela’s sense of hearing, and her senses further heightened with the focus of her mind, Hermione’s words were far from lost as they fell upon her ear. Fleur’s concentration broke for a moment, her mouth instantly drier than before, and a moment was all Hermione needed.

The blonde’s rosewood wand sailed across the short space between the two, expertly caught by Hermione, who wore the smuggest look of triumph in her eyes.  She sauntered closer to the Veela and kissed her cheek gently before her wand was returned.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Fleur? Your pupils are far too dilated for this light.” She teased lightly, her own pupils blown. Fleur growled lowly in her throat, primal and haughty beside Hermione’s ear. The lioness’s smile only broadened, and she nipped at the Veela’s jaw before turning to begin practice again. Harry returned, and stumbled backwards when he saw Fleur’s pupils were elliptical against the faceted blue hues.

“Don’t worry, Harry, I’m just… excited, is all,” Fleur murmured, casting a look at Hermione, who smiled back innocently. The Veela’s next low growl wasn’t inaudible to Harry, and he chuckled, understanding her words.

“She’ll pay for that pride one day,” He said softly, gesturing to Ron to take Fleur’s place again. “There are a few who need some help. Think you can put her out of your thoughts long enough to help them?”

“Not at all,” Fleur managed as she turned away from Hermione, well aware that the brunette’s eyes had not yet left her, and swayed her hips a little more than necessary as she moved. Harry chuckled again, and Fleur felt a surge of amusement as Hermione yelped loudly, no doubt losing her wand to Ron for lack of attention.

For the next half hour, Fleur practiced with the others who weren’t quite getting the hang of the spell. Mostly, the movements of the wrist were to blame, and after submitting herself to be a target for each of them, after thoroughly instructing them on the correct wand movements, waited patiently until each had taken her wand from her with the right motion. Then, she paired them off, instructing them to practice quickening the move, again, weeding out those who could manage on their own, now that they knew how to move their wands and hands. She repeated the process until she was left with Neville, who blushed darkly.

“Come, now,” She spoke lightly, trying to meet his eyes although he was most unwilling, for the Veela had hardly calmed since her dueling with the lioness. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, everyone has problems. You know, I only conjured a corporeal Patronus last year,” She said. At this confession, he looked up sharply.

“Really?” She nodded, unashamed. “But, you’re perfect!”

She actually snorted. “There’s no such thing as perfection, Neville, it’s only an idea, a goal to strive to achieve, but a goal that can never be attained, because it does not exist.” She patted his shoulder gently. “But, we are perfectly ourselves with our faults and flaws. We can only strive to be better, not perfect, no?” Neville nodded his understanding, and took a defensive stance. Fleur studied it carefully, and made corrections, telling him how best to stand so that if he were knocked off balance from one side or another it could be regained with a simple step.

When he memorized the stance, he squared off against Fleur, who promised a fair fight. He cast, she deflected, waited a moment, and returned the charm. He copied her, faked a move, and followed with a clumsily cast charm, but it was enough to strike. Fleur’s wand fell from his hand when he tried to catch it, but even that did not take his joy from him. He leaped happily, and hooted with mirth, pumping his fist in the air. An applause lifted as he stooped to retrieve Fleur’s wand, and she took it with a wide smile.

Harry blew his whistle, and the noise stopped. “Well, we certainly made progress tonight!” He said cheerfully. “That went very well, and I want to thank everyone for participating. Shall we meet here again, same time, next weekend?”

“Sooner!” Several voices shouted.

“But the Quidditch season’s staring soon!” another voice spoke up.

“Okay, how about Wednesday?” He glanced at Fleur.

“You don’t _need_ me, Harry, you can do just fine on your own,” the Veela shrugged.

“Will you be able to make it anyway? Just solely out of curiosity.”

“We don’t have the schedule yet. I’ll let you know tomorrow,” She promised.

Harry nodded and dismissed the D.A., instructing them to leave in twos and threes back to their dormitories, his eyes locked on the map in his hands. Fleur walked to the back of the room, studying objects on a shelf.

“They’re Dark Detectors,” Hermione murmured from her side. “I wouldn’t put much stock in them, though. They can be fooled.”

Fleur nodded, examining the cracked Foe-Glass. “I’ve handled a few of them. Which reminds me,” she turned to the Gryffindor. “What were you playing at earlier? I’ve never apprenticed under my Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Zacharias, he’s in league with the journalists; he doesn’t have any faith in Harry, and he’d much rather not take orders or direction from him. Harry’s the only one who has any real experience with Voldemort, and there’s no way you’d be able to teach us everything. He doesn’t want to credit Harry for anything.”

“You wanted to intimidate him?”

“In a way, I suppose. I really wanted to leave no room for questioning of Harry’s place or leadership here, give a real chance for him, and everyone else, to see how great Harry really is, rather than swallowing that rubbish the newspapers publish.”

Fleur nodded, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “You still shouldn’t have fibbed.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, surprising the Veela greatly. “Like I haven’t fibbed before to cover someone’s arse or my own.” She changed her voice so she sounded like a younger version of herself. “‘I thought I could handle a troll since I’ve read about them.’ and ‘No, Harry, I don’t have a time-traveling device that allows me to take five more classes than anyone else can manage. We have to save Buckbeak though, so here put this round your neck.’ and ‘Three-headed dog? I don’t know anything about a three-headed dog. Or a mysterious chamber in the girl’s bathroom. Sirius Black? He’s escaped from Azkaban? I had no idea.’ and the most recent, ‘No, Professor Umbridge, under no circumstances would I _ever dream_ of mating with a filthy Veela!’” She elbowed the Frenchwoman gently before looping her arms around her neck, kissing her cheek. “I’ve fibbed about a lot of things for the protection of myself and my friends, the most often of course being Harry. It’s nothing new, love. Besides, Umbridge doesn’t need to know of my dreams or my intent to fulfil them,” She drawled suggestively, rubbing her nose along Fleur’s jawline.

Fleur smiled broadly, and laughed at the thought. “Oh, dreaming of _mating_ with a filthy Veela like myself? Hermione, what would your all-knowing professor think of you? Surely, you wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation with her by _dreaming_ of such things!” She chided mockingly, rolling her eyes and stamping out her disgust with the toad-like woman as if it were an ember beneath her shod foot. Her voice changed again, to a more thoughtful tone as she spoke next. “To be honest, I’m more interested in hearing about those other things about which you’ve fibbed.”

The lioness glanced at her with an incredulous expression, but chuckled nonetheless. “Why don’t you stay with me so I can tell you?”

So she did. As they lay together, comfortably wrapped in Hermione’s blankets, the lioness recounted the numerous adventures she’d embarked on, from the beginning of her first year, up through the tales until she’d caught the blonde up.

“…You got past a three-headed dog in order to get to a stone before Voldemort could find it?” Fleur murmured.

“Well, I didn’t get to the stone, that was Harry, but I did get past Fluffy. And the Devil’s Snare.”

“Fluffy?”

“Mhm. The three-headed dog.”

Fleur’s brows were nearly lost in her hairline, but she let the thought die and moved on. “… A basilisk petrified you?”

“Yep,”

“…And you followed Harry Potter into a ‘shrieking shack,’ where you faced off with Peter Pettigrew, Severus Snape, and Sirius Black, before you knew the truth about him?”

“Sure did. There were other, smaller adventures, too of course, like all the times we went into the Forbidden Forest, but those were the largest and most worrisome.”

Fleur nodded silently, snuggling firmly against Hermione. Her heartbeat thrummed beneath her ear, sure and strong within her chest. “Should you find yourself running back to trouble like an old mistress, please tell me about it, at the very least.”

The lioness chuckled softly beneath her ear, rubbing her back with a reassuring hand. “Of course, Fleur. But all those adventures have passed and only memories remain; they don’t put me in danger now.”

“No,” Fleur agreed softly, taking Hermione’s hand in hers. “I’m just thinking about how different everything could have turned out. If you had died, somehow, we wouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t know if I’d ever find my mate, I wouldn’t have known the happiness I do now, and in another world, perhaps there’s a me that lives that life. I just don’t want to take a moment for granted.”

Hermione sobered instantly as her small smile fell from her lips. Of course, it meant so much to the Veela. One act or one decision could have had an enormous impact on something the young lioness knew nothing of in that yesteryear that seemed so far gone. “You mean, an alternate universe perhaps?”

Fleur nodded against her chest. “I think one exists for every possibility, every chance, every choice. In several, I’m sure there’s another Fleur who’s lost her Hermione before she even knew her. There’s a Hermione who didn’t accept a Fleur, or even dance with her at the Yule Ball. There’s so many possibilities, but somehow, we’re _here._ We have each other in this world, in this moment, and quite frankly, while I mourn for those alternate selves, I care far more about this one. Because you have me _now,_ and this is the only universe that matters.”

“That’s right, Fleur. We’re _here,_ not there, or further and yon, but here. And I love you, and you love me.” She kissed the Veela’s temple gently. “And nothing will take me away from you.” They lay in silence for several long moments, listening as one drew breath and the other heartbeat. “You know what’s strange?”

“Hmm?” Fleur hummed.

“There’s a universe in which I fancy Ron,” Fleur smacked her playfully, laughing outright.

“That is a strange thought, isn’t it?”

Hermione sighed, and kissed Fleur’s lips without hesitation, shivering slightly as she did. “Thank the gods this is the only universe that matters, hm?” The Veela responded with another kiss. Hermione pulled away slowly, resting her forehead against Fleur’s. When the Veela met her eyes, Hermione found herself spellbound.

She’d looked into Fleur’s eyes many times, lost herself in their depths even, but never so much as she did in this moment. The Veela’s eyes were incredibly soft, looking up at her as if she were the most beautiful thing they’d ever fallen upon. Their identical wreaths of dark lashes blinked slowly, almost as though they were afraid to stir the air. They held words, promises, benedictions that no language could accurately portray or dignify to the proper esteem.

“You have the most beautiful eyes,” Hermione murmured. To her surprise, blood rushed to color the blonde’s cheeks, her eyes shying away from her own.

“Thank you,” She returned softly, still adverting the Gryffindor’s gaze.

“I know that’s not the first time you’ve heard that,”

“No, it’s not, but you’ve never said it before,” Finally, she allowed a moment of eye contact again. Hermione did not respond as she lost herself in silent thought, settling back into her bed comfortably. The Veela sighed against her, tucking her face into her neck, breathing in the Gryffindor’s scent.

“I have good news,” Fleur spoke up after a few minutes of silence.

“And what is that?”

“Next week, I’ll be moving into that little cottage I showed you,”

“Fleur, that’s fantastic!” Hermione exclaimed. “How did you manage to pay for it?”

“I’ve been applying to places left and right, but Gringott’s hired me. I’ll start Tuesday.”

“What will you be doing?” Hermione asked, half afraid of the answer, for she knew well how wonderful goblins could be. She scowled at the thought.

“I’ll be in the vaults for the most part, studying the spells cast on them, stabilizing old ones, improving them and such. They also said I could practice as a healer, since a lot of injuries occur there. It’s a new learning stretch I’m excited to begin.”

“Please be careful,” the brunette murmured. “Goblins can be awful creatures, and unstable spells can kill just as easily as the killing curse.”

Fleur pressed a gentle kiss to her neck with a chuckle. “Of course, darling. Extra-careful, at all times.”

“What will your schedule be like?”

“Much better than the Broomsticks. Full-time and stable, not to mention better wages and the chances of me dealing with any drunken duels in the vaults is nearly zero, but I’m sure someone could surprise me,” Hermione chuckled beneath her, kissing the Veela’s hair.

“That’s a relief, isn’t it? What are you doing to furnish it?”

“Mama’s helping me at the moment. She says we have more furniture than we need in our house, so I’ll be taking the bed from my bedroom, her older dresser and desk, and the parlor’s table and chairs. She says we have too much, but really, she just wants to shop,” She said chuckling. “And she loves rummaging through antique stores for things like that. I’m sure Gabrielle and I will be hopelessly pulled into the task too,”

“That sounds just like your mother,” Hermione said, joining her laughter. In the short summer months, the lioness had come to know Apolline quite well.

Fleur nodded against her with a smile. “I’ll show it to you as soon I get everything situated. Shouldn’t take me long,”

Hermione let her jaw open wide to admit a yawn, tucking in closer to the blonde at her side as sleep began to ebb at her.

“Hermione,” Fleur murmured softly. A low grumble served as her reply. “Thank you for letting me help with the D.A. I know Harry’s in charge, but it’s still nice to do something and help out like this. And next time, you can bet that I’ll take your wand from you.”

“Is that a challenge, Fleur?”

“It is.”

“Then it’s accepted.”

“Good luck concentrating next time,”

“And how exactly do you plan on distracting me?” Fleur never needed to raise her voice to reply. A wave of heat crashed over Hermione, making her heart pound and drive chemicals though her bloodstream. Her blood did not, however, remain in her extremities, but rushed to other places of her anatomy, leaving her panting and curled against Fleur, as though she could not live without every inch of her body touching the Veela. She didn’t know how or when their position had changed, but when she opened her eyes, she found herself against the blonde’s chest, her blue eyes dark above her.

A mixture of emotions swirled in their depths; lust and logic fought one another to take control. Hermione’s breathing hitched in her chest as she saw them warring, and without further thought, reached for Fleur’s lips. But the Veela would not allow her such luxury. A low moan of protest slipped through Hermione’s parted lips, and again, she tried to capture Fleur’s mouth. Again, the Veela would not allow it, but pressed a kiss to Hermione’s neck. The action, as common of an occurrence as it was, sent a shock through Hermione’s nervous system. She arched against the blonde, holding her impossibly tight to her body, her legs wrapping around her as she pulled the Veela over her. Her hands lost themselves in blonde tresses, her breathing short and shallow as teeth nimbly replaced soft lips at her neck. Her desire was split in two sectors; did she want the Veela’s mouth to remain on her neck, or did she want more to kiss her fully, as she’d tried to do before?

She didn’t have an answer, but she did know she did not want Fleur to pull away, and she was very disappointed when she did. She growled lowly, feebly trying to pull her back, to kiss her again, to close the space Fleur had so unfairly put between their bodies, but just as quickly as the wave of heat had hit her, it receded, leaving her shivering with cold and mad with lust.

“What the hell was that?” Hermione managed when she could speak again, her breathing had yet return to normal.

“Thrall,” Fleur murmured softly, her eyes incredulous. “I just… I didn’t hold back,”

“I thought you couldn’t control your thrall?” Hermione gasped, clinging to a piece of intellect before it fled to make way for lust.

“I can’t, but I can fight it… and if I wish, I can make you feel it at times, even though you’re immune to a large degree… It’s an evolutionary concept, to help us seal partnerships faster after they’ve been accepted. Obviously, I’ve never tried it before…”

“Why the bloody hell did you stop?” Hermione demanded.

“Because I hadn’t expected that reaction from you, or from me. And I didn’t think you’d want to share our first time in your dormitory.”

“What were you expecting to happen?”

Fleur shook her head, her brow furrowed. “I can’t recall,”

“Wait, first time?” The Veela was so near, still hovering over her, their chests so close together, Hermione could feel the Veela’s heart thundering in its cage.

Fleur blushed darkly. “If I hadn’t stopped when I did, I don’t think I would have been able to…”

Hermione’s brows lifted in surprise. “And now, without the thrall?”

The Veela ducked her head and bit her lip. “I’m ready, Hermione. If you still are, of course.”

The lioness chewed on the inside of her cheek, the lust she’d felt only moments ago evaporated entirely with her shock. She hadn’t changed her mind, but Fleur’s affirmation made it so much more tangible; even so, she found she wasn’t afraid, but surprised. “I am,” she finally whispered.

Fleur’s cheeks reddened even further, ducking her head and avoiding eye contact. “I’m terribly sorry, Hermione. I shouldn’t have used my thrall, it was dreadfully unfair, and I barely know how to control it—”

“If you’re in a duel, it could be useful, Fleur. And that’s how you plan on distracting me when we duel next. Technically, I asked for it,” she chuckled, trying to brighten Fleur’s mood. The ghost of a smile tugged at the blonde’s lips.

“Don’t be embarrassed; it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Purely natural and animal. There’s nothing more ordinary than sex.”

“It’s not that I’m embarrassed by it, exactly,” Fleur murmured. “I’m afraid I won’t know what to do.”

Hermione kissed the Veela’s cheek gently. “It’s not like I will either, and I think that’ll make it mean even more for us. We’ll explore and learn together. I’m sure we’ll mess up at first, sex may be natural, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy, and that’s okay.” She finally got her wish of kissing Fleur’s lips. “We’ll be slow, if that helps. We don’t have to rush anything.”

The Veela nodded quickly. “That sounds like the smart thing to do,” She nuzzled Hermione gently. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Don’t thank me, Fleur,” the Gryffindor chuckled. “From what I’ve heard, it’s what you’re supposed to do in a relationship.”

Silently, they settled again, feeling as though their relationship had deepened enormously just from the level of openness they established.

“Do you think you can sleep, or should I retire to Hogsmeade?” Fleur whispered softly.

Hermione shook her head against the blonde’s chest. “I can sleep just fine, Fleur. I don’t want you to leave.”

Just as she had done so long ago, the Veela took the Gryffindor tightly into her arms, and against better judgment, spent the night curled round the lioness, counting her breaths until she, too, found sleep.

 


	8. Quidditch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, guys, get ready for a rather long chapter. Enjoy!  
> Much love,  
> RC

For the next week, the D.A. reveled in operating under Umbridge’s nose, a strong bond forming between its members drew them to protect one another, should they be questioned or stopped, and so far, none had slipped up with as much as a word. Harry and Hermione no longer felt the need to speak out in class, and abandoned the silencing tonic; they were so proud and confident, they could even look up at the toad’s face as she passed and smile at her without a muscle betraying the expression, so genuine they were.

Sirius had made no further attempt at contact, unless it through the combined spells of Fleur and Hermione’s wands. But even then, little was said, other than the praise he gave for the establishing of the D.A. and the begrudging messages from Ron’s mother, imploring them to abandon the idea at once. Such a thing was unthinkable, of course, and thanks to Fleur’s great-great-grandmother, the spell necessary was only compliant to those of Veela affiliation, thus saving Ron and Harry from Mrs. Weasley’s own letters of disbandment. Hermione was saved from them with the refusal of Fleur, and the defense given by Dumbledore, although that particular detail was unbeknownst to the three Gryffindors.

October came and went, and with it came Fleur and Hermione’s one-year anniversary. It had been a quiet affair as Hermione’s birthday had been, much to the sorrow of the Veela, who promised to make it up to the lioness tenfold. Hermione, however, knew the risks of Umbridge and preferred staying in, delighted to share the meal Fleur had made for the occasion. They ate happily, a single candle the only light source in the room, leaving them to stare into each other’s eyes to watch the flame dance there. No tangible gifts were exchanged, but they were rich in kisses, eager to share the wealth with one another and allowed the world to fade from their consciousness as their troubles were left for the morrow.

The Quidditch teams were trying to practice as often as possible, which put the D.A. meetings on hold from time to time. Harry was still as good a Seeker as his father had been before him, Ron still desperate to improve his skills beyond Wood’s standards, a feat that much easier said than done, while Hermione was still completely uninterested in the sport at all, but still attended practices to get outside and cheer her best friends on. The gesture was whole-heartedly appreciated, as the two knew very well how the lioness preferred the quiet library over the ruckus of the Quidditch pitch.

That week, Fleur resigned from the Three Broomsticks, moved out of the inn, into her new home, and began work at Gringott’s. She remembered the joy she’d felt when the goblins, having no infatuation with her, actually tested her on her spell-work and skill; the strain of deciding which was worth more, food or rent, was still fresh in her memory, and wasn’t one she would be forgetting soon. It was tedious work, down in the vaults, and even though she was exhausted, she felt satisfied and happy at the end of a long day. The goblins could be a nuisance, but she at least had the company of Bill Weasley. The two got along wonderfully, assisting each other when old wards went particularly wonky, or when the goblins were too much for either of them to handle. A bond grew, strengthening when the two would occasionally grab a beer after work from the Leaky Cauldron.

It was after one of these outings with Bill when Fleur met Hermione outside Honeyduke’s, ready to show her the cottage. The November atmosphere was biting with chill, and together, the two witches hurried into the house. Fleur took the Gryffindor’s coat and hung it on the peg before removing her own, along with her boots. A small archway allowed them entrance into the large, open space of the kitchen and parlor, separated by a breakfast bar, a short hallway led to the bedroom. Fleur flicked a switch and gas lights lit themselves along the walls of the room, a flick of her wand set the fire to blaze in the hearth.

Hermione rushed to the fire, warming her hands while Fleur set the kettle to boil. While the blonde was busy in the kitchen, Hermione took her time in studying her new lodgings. Pictures adorned the mantle, some of Fleur’s family smiling up at her, others of Shamin and the young dragons, more still boasted the lioness herself, twirling round in the blonde’s arms. The walls held art, similarly to her Beauxbaton’s quarters. The rest of the parlor was relatively bare, a long sofa was set before the fire, the rectangular dining table behind it with enough space in between for the chairs. Thraso hooted happily from a perch in a cage, the gate open to allow her free leave. Hermione rubbed the owl gingerly, earning a click of her beak and a gentle nuzzle.

“I know it’s rather barren,” Fleur called from the kitchen, the bar allowing her voice to carry easily across the room. She continued speaking as she came round the corner, carrying with her a tray of biscuits and tea. “Hopefully, I’ll have a bookshelf and a proper coffee table before the week is over,” She said, setting the tray on table and pouring two cups of tea. “How do you take your cup?” Hermione chuckled and approached the Veela.

“Two sugars and a dash of ginger,” The Gryffindor replied, taking a seat beside Fleur. She munched on a Ginger Newt happily, carefully sipping at her hot tea when the Veela offered it her.

Fleur made her own cup and settled into her chair, gesturing around happily. “So? How do you like it?”

“I love it, Fleur, I really do. It’s adorable, and snug, and completely you.” She said with a smile. “If there’s anything I can do to help out, I’ll be happy to,”

Fleur hummed softly as she lowered her teacup. “Nothing to do, love. Everything that can be done, is done, until I get some shelves that is. Be careful when you go into the bedroom; books are all over the floor.”

Hermione’s eyes brightened, and she instantly got to her feet, excitedly making her way to the room in question. Fleur had not exaggerated about the books; there were stacks and stacks of them covering nearly every inch of surface, making one’s first steps into the room an unpleasant surprise.

“Fleur, I think you’ll need more than a bookshelf…” Hermione murmured upon hearing the Veela’s approach behind her.

“That’s what Mama said. I’ll need several, I know, but there’s not an extra room for a library.”

Hermione nodded her agreement and gracefully folded herself on the floor, selecting the first book her fingers came to rest upon. She frowned when she saw it was French, but tried her best to read it anyway with her embarrassingly limited knowledge of the language. She gave up after a few moments, joining Fleur where she sat happily perched at the foot of the bed.

“How’s Gringott’s going?” She asked.

Fleur sighed, one hand rubbing her neck while the other held her teacup. “It’s a lot to get used to,” She said at last. “The goblins aren’t as bad as some people think; most aren’t as bad, at least. The spells are some of the strongest I’ve seen, though. You wouldn’t believe what they can do…”

Hermione hummed softly, for she had read countless texts on unstable spells, worn by time. “Have you sustained any injuries yet?”

“None too terrible. A few scrapes and bruises, but nothing to contend with what I’ve healed. Damn goblins can withstand anything.”

“I’ve heard they’re quite hardy. Does this mean you’ll always have weekends off?”

Fleur sighed, flopping backwards onto the bed. “Most weekends, unless they have an emergency. Why do you ask?”

Hermione shrugged, lying beside the Veela atop the mattress. “The first Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch game is tomorrow afternoon, I was wondering if you’d be interested in going,”

Fleur smiled, touched. “I would love to, Hermione, but what would Professor Umbridge think? She’d find some way to put you in detention.”

“Well, if you came to see Dumbledore or McGonagall she won’t be able to penalize either of us.”

The Veela considered silently for a moment. “I suppose I could come up with something to discuss with Dumbledore, of course I’d write to him first. I suppose he would need an update anyway…” She trailed off softly, instantly gaining Hermione’s interest.

“What kind of update?”

“Order stuff.” Fleur replied indifferently, rising up to write the letter. “Part of the reason I took the Gringott’s job. So far, there’s nothing of great importance, mostly research of long-standing spells.” It was a short note, and with a whistle, summoned Thraso, and sent her directly to Dumbledore.

 The lioness nodded silently, wondering why Dumbledore would leave such a task to her when he was certainly capable of study himself. She dismissed the thought, and rolled to her side, snuggling close against the blonde. “What’s it like? Being in the Order?”

“Nothing terribly exciting yet, I’m afraid.” Fleur sighed, wrapping her arms about the other witch. “We’re trying to recruit as quietly as we can. Bill and I have gotten a few on our side over the last week.”

“Bill? Bill Weasley?”

“Yes, Ron’s brother. Quite the young man; excellent spell-work, even with the older ones, he can even get the goblins to laugh sometimes, although it takes a few gruesome adjectives to do so,”

“Sounds like you have a crush, Fleur,” Hermione laughed, nudging the blonde’s side gently.

Fleur scoffed loudly with a chuckle. “Please, even if I could, he wouldn’t be interested.”

Hermione’s eyebrow rose, and from the dim light, she saw Fleur’s expression cloud over, as if she said something she shouldn’t have. “How do you know he wouldn’t be?” She asked softly.

The Veela hesitated a moment too long to answer. “It’s not something I’m sure about, really,” she managed. “Just, a hunch,”

“A hunch?”

Fleur shrugged her shoulders instead of answering.

Silence took reign as the thought dropped. They took their normal positions as they lay, Hermione wrapped in the arms of the Veela, content and warm against her chest. With a small smile, she listened to the other’s heartbeat, strong and steady beneath her ear. It was a warm, comfortable quiet, a question lingering on both their lips but neither eager to ask.

Finally, Fleur could hold her silence no longer, and lifted her voice. “Hermione, about the other night…”

“Have you changed your mind?” The question wasn’t harsh or hurried, but soft, curious.

“No, I haven’t,” Fleur started, biting her lip gently. “I was only wondering when exactly…?”

Hermione turned her eyes to the blonde, studying her closely. “Let’s not make it so formal, dearest. It shouldn’t be an appointment. Let it happen when it feels right.” She met the Veela’s lips gently, but the fiery passion they’d known before was absent, instead, an ember smoldered beneath the surface as they brushed against one another, noses gently rubbing together as they changed angles, moving as one. They smiled against one another, every thought forgotten and insignificant.

They filled their senses with the other; breathing scents into the bottom of their lungs, skin and hair soft beneath gentle fingertips, tea and sugar still potent on tongues, colors flashing brightly behind their eyelids, and an acute awareness of the breathing and careful movements of their counterparts. Their fire did not rage, it did not race through their blood, but it warmed their chests from the insides out, the flames forming arms as they pulled each other closer, Hermione hovering over the Veela as she slowed her movements, changing direction and tempo as she trailed over her throat, peppering the soft flesh with kisses.

“See? Now’s not the time. But it’ll come.” She kissed the Veela again “So what do you propose we do? It’s still really early,”

“That it is. I dropped by your hometown after work today, grabbed something I think you’ll appreciate.” Hermione’s brow furrowed, but she followed the blonde into the kitchen, where she disposed of the tepid tea and set the dishes to washing. She reached up to the cupboard, and rummaged through it for a moment, her shirt lifting as she stretched. A band of pale skin became visible above the waistline of her jeans, causing the lioness to swallow involuntarily as she forced her eyes away. When the Veela sank back down to stand flat-footed, she held a bag of marshmallows in hand, a grin gracing her features. “I thought we could have our own little pow-wow; Fred and George ate most of them at the beach before term started.”

Hermione found herself smiling in kind, rolling her eyes at the memory of the twins. Fleur stoked the fire again, and together, they sat by the mantle, telling stories, recounting memories, and ingesting far too much sugar for one sitting. As the night wore on and chitchat softened to whispers, Hermione soon found Fleur asleep on the floor in front of the fire, her head resting in her lap. The firelight made her skin glow bronze, dancing in her hair and highlighting her strong jaw, her proud nose.

She was beautiful, more so now that Hermione had ever seen before. The Gryffindor ran a gentle hand over her cheek, warm and red from the flames. She carried flyaway strands of golden hair behind her ear with a single motion, careful not to disturb the blonde. She studied her carefully, etching each detail to her memory. When she could support herself no longer, she woke the French witch, who soon fell asleep again atop the covers and still clad in the day’s clothes. Hermione fought to peel the covers back, after fighting even harder to awaken the blonde again in order to change into pajamas. She wore her bottoms backward, and the brunette was nearly positive her shirt remained inside-out, but she was comfortably dressed and beneath the duvet, which was more than she expected to accomplish. She rummaged through the chest of drawers herself, dressed in newly rediscovered articles of her own clothing, and settled in against the Veela, pressing front to back as she held the other tightly, planting kisses along her shoulder and neck. A low hum sounded from her throat for a few moments, dying with a sigh as sleep took her again.

Gringott’s was wearing hard on Fleur, harder than she let on if her sleeping state was any indication. She wasn’t usually a light sleeper, but at least would stir if Hermione cursed loudly as she tripped over a book, but not tonight when the lioness had done just that. Even so, she was attuned to Hermione’s movements, and soon both rest wrapped in the warmth of one another.

      

When morning came, it did so slowly. Hermione woke first, which was quite unusual, and, upon seeing the hour, decidedly much too early for a Saturday anyway. She wove in and out of slumber, lazing in the in-between of sleep and wakefulness, although her mind was incredibly quiet, and peacefully so despite its boisterous and noisy nature. Hours passed, the sun slowly rose behind the clouds, and was denied passage from them. Fleur rose though the layer of consciousness with ease, nothing demanding her attention until her stomach rumbled loudly from beneath the duvet. Hermione chuckled from behind her, kissing her gently.

“Good morning, love,” The lioness whispered against her skin. “It seems as though your body must deny itself one desire in order to meet another. I think it’s time to get up.”

“Far too early,” Fleur groaned, snuggling against the brunette. Shortly after she’d made the proclamation, her stomach grumbled again, much louder than the last time.

“Your body disagrees, and quite frankly, I think it wins.” Hermione laughed, freeing herself from the tangle of sheets and blankets before hauling Fleur out with her. The Veela was far more than reluctant to follow, but soon the smells of breakfast wafted through the small house, and finally, the blonde was stated after ingesting far more bacon and bread than anyone really needed.

They felt the morning pass by slowly, slipping through their conscious with peace and contentment. Breakfast was a simple, easy affair, full of light conversation, morning tea, stolen kisses and laughter. Sunlight streamed in happily from the bay windows on the east side of the house, bathing the floor in yellow rays as the sun began its climb. The shadow of an owl was cast on the floor with the arrival of Thraso, bearing Dumbledore’s answering letter from Fleur’s previous. The blonde let the large owl in, and took her burden, flicking her eyes over it quickly, a smile lifting her lips.

“Dumbledore said he will be delighted to speak with me, even invited me to lunch, and to escort me to the game.” Fleur reported happily. Hermione beamed at her, already looking forward to the game, even though her interest in the sport was far from enthusiastic. They showered, separately of course, dressed, and began the battle of bringing order to Fleur’s bedroom. Hermione helped enlarge her bookshelf, even multiplied it so she could have one in the parlor. With their wands and a few quick spells, all the books were organizing themselves according to genre, author, and title. When the floor was visible again, Hermione slipped through Honeyduke’s with a quick, deep kiss, leaving Fleur breathless as she threw a flirtatious smile over her shoulder.

Later, the blonde walked, smiling happily up at the sun as it beamed down on her back, warming her as the cold November wind attempted to chill her. A lingering ache rested in the pit of her stomach, a knot of desire and longing. Did it take so little? So short a time? Was it that simple? Hermione said to wait, that the time would come by itself, that it would feel right. How did that last kiss feel?

Fleur lifted her fingertips to her lips as if to remember Hermione’s against her. It had been hot; an ember close to bursting into flame, had she pressed harder, closer, deeper. But it wasn’t the right place. Behind the wall of candy store full of bustling people? Hardly ideal, although for the exhibitionist it would have been enticing.

A shiver, unbidden by the wind, tickled down the Veela’s spine. She bit her lip in silent contemplation, wondering, fearing. What if the right time and the right place never coincided? Was that possible? Had it happened before? Had others, within her race or outside it, ever been afflicted with such an unfortunate habit? She shook off her thoughts, cursing herself. It wasn’t difficult, it wasn’t hard, and it shouldn’t be scary. It was natural, the ‘most ordinary thing in the world,’ as Hermione had proclaimed. But it was terrifying, and far from ordinary. All her life, she’d heard stories of the act, details skipped out, but the emotion laid raw in the words spoken. How it felt to be mated, to have finally closed one door of the ritual, to open another—this time without a set plan or rules or expectation, but a path the mated pair would beat together, exploring and uncovering from trial, error, apology and forgiveness.

For Hermione, the act would be animal, at least at first. It would be strange, new, exotic, uncertain, shy and above all paradoxically natural. But for Fleur? It would be a dance one could never practice before performance. It was a test one could study for, but never allowed to gain any physical skill beforehand. It was a slow battle between instinct and promise, between body and mind, between the three-quarters of herself that made her human and sole quarter that made her Veela. There would not be much difference between the two and their own experience with each other. Both would be shy, uncertain, animal, natural, but so much more than either could envision now.

A muffled _hem, hem,_ drew her attention, and Dolores Umbridge leaned heavily against the gate, as if expecting her. “What brings you to Hogwarts on such a nice day?” The question was spoken too sweetly, as if an enticing treat contained poison.

“I was invited to a Quidditch match,” Fleur explained truthfully, every defense lifting in response to the foul woman, although to the untrained eye she looked most at ease. “The Headmaster sent for me last night, actually. He’s always been rather fond.” Beneath her lighthearted words, a challenge resided, cold and hard and anything but light. It reflected in her eyes as a brow lifted silently. Taunting.

“May I ask if you have proof of this exchange with the headmaster?” Umbridge bit as she took the invitation.

A sly smile threatened Fleur’s composure. “And what gives you the right to ask for proof, if I may?”

“Educational Decree Number—”

Fleur nodded her understanding before the first word had passed the other’s lips. “Of course, the _Decree._ I suppose I’ll be submitted to an interview and strip- as well as body cavity-searches as well, then?”

“There will be no need for any of that, Professor,” Dumbledore intoned, briskly approaching the pair, a twinkle in his eye and a particular spring in his step.

Umbridge looked stunned. “Why, Headmaster, you simply cannot allow a decree to go unfollowed—”

“Ah, I suppose you have a point, don’t you, Professor. Well let’s see here,” The headmaster looked Fleur up and down, saw no threat and reported it to Umbridge.

“Why, there’s a peculiar shape in her—”

“Her wand, Professor, surely you carry yours as well? Now, Fleur,” the Veela’s eyes brightened, a victorious air about her as she lifted her chin. Dumbledore had used her first name, while he called Umbridge ‘professor.’ “Are you in any state of mind to bring harm to the faculty or students here at Hogwarts?”

“Never, Dumbledore. I would never harbor any such intention.”

“Albus, please,” he chuckled. “Well then, I see no threat here. Come! We shall go to my office for a chat and a bit of tea. Much has happened since our last talk hasn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed Albus,” she replied, the name strange on her tongue, as they began the walk to the castle.

“And how is your grandmother doing? She’s been very busy, I hear.”

“She has her hands full, I’m afraid. Shamin’s eggs hatched over the summer, and she’d been dealing with them as of late. Eight strong, healthy youngsters in the village, along with several new foals, which are the least of her worries.”

“Ah yes! The Horntail. How is the young father?”

“Quite well, I assure you. He loves the open air and fields, and the young love playing in the grass. Grand-mère is training the young to be gentle with people, although there isn’t much she can do to make them gentler. They already curl up in your lap and purr if you pet them.”

Dumbledore released a loud chuckle, clapping her shoulder lovingly. “I remember your Shamin very well. Yes, after the taming, he looked so frightened and worried while you were being treated. Folded himself up beside the tent, waiting for you to come out safe and sound.” He sighed in reminiscence.

By now, they were strolling through the hallways, uncaring and oblivious as to when Umbridge had stopped following them. When they arrived in his office, and the door securely closed behind them, the Headmaster’s demeanor morphed into a more serious expression. Now, Fleur could see the worry and fear etched into his features, his easy smile a mask he donned daily. She felt privileged in knowing he trusted her enough to take if off, and knew better than to inquire about his abundant weariness. 

“So, how is Gringott’s treating you?” he asked as he set to pouring tea into two china cups.

“Fairly well, considering. The goblins take some getting used to, but I find them quite interesting all the same. The spell-work is complex and challenging, and of course that’s a thrill in itself, along with the depths of the caverns and the constant running away from awakened creatures.” Fleur replied, taking the proffered cup and sprinkled a bit of sugar and cream into the dark liquid.

“Have you managed to find anything we’re looking for?”

“I have a few leads,” Fleur admitted softly, lowering her cup from her lips. “Old passages that lead to God knows where. Bill believes a few lead into Germany, a few others France. We can’t be sure yet, but we are working to clear them.”

Dumbledore nodded, pleased. “Very well. Those will come in handy no matter where they lead, I’m sure.”

“Dumble—Albus, why did you ask us to do this?”

The wizard took his time in replying, studying the French witch carefully. “I believe it is best to leave every stone overturned, every possibility taken as seriously as reality, and every advantage used properly and intelligently. Tom’s return is not an event that should be taken lightly,” he sighed. “Neither do I think your grandmother would disagree.”

Fleur nodded her agreement, concern written into her features. “Is there anything else I can do to service you or the Order?”

Again, Dumbledore considered silently before responding. “At the moment, no, Fleur. Enjoy yourself; you’ve been working very hard for a very long time. How is the partnership progressing?”

“Beautifully,” Fleur sighed. “We’ve begun to speak about finishing the ritual, but I fear I’m more nervous than she. She’s ready, but I find that I am hesitant.” The wizard regarded her carefully with a thoughtful eye, a study, not a judgment. “I’m just afraid I’ll mess up, really,”

Now, the headmaster laughed. “Fleur, just as your ritual progresses, so will its finishing. It is not an act carved in stone, but a journey to be traveled by both you and Miss Granger. Learn together, teach each other. I think you’ll find that in this subject, you will be Hermione’s best teacher, and she yours.” He winked with a small smile, bringing a flush to the girl’s cheeks. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Fleur, perfectly organic. Next year, you’ll look back on your past self and wonder why you were ever afraid. Now, the game’s due to start soon, let us join the young players and cheer them on to victory!” He laughed, lifting his cup for a toast.

Fleur smiled and lifted her glass in kind, finishing her tea and rising from her seat. Together, they made their way to the Quidditch pitch, Hermione joined them on the way and when she did, Dumbledore politely excused himself to sit in the professor’s box.

“Where do we sit?” Fleur asked softly, examining the congregating masses of crimson and emerald.

“The Gryffindor side, of course. Unless you’d rather support Slytherin.”

“But what about—”

“Do you really care about that dreadful woman, Fleur?” Hermione chuckled. “Please. Dumbledore will tell her he had you sit with me to explain the game and provide friendly company, or something of the like.” She took the blonde’s hand in her own, tugging her in the direction of the box. When they had settled, the wind picked up, as if to welcome them to the height, bearing a promise of cold, relentless, and potentially dangerous weather in December. A loud roar shook the atmosphere, and Fleur nearly leaped out of her skin. Luna Lovegood’s pale face smiled from beneath a lion’s head hat.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Fleur,” Luna apologized softly. “It’s particularly loud today,”

“How on earth…?” Fleur sighed, staring at the Ravenclaw’s hat.

“I’m supporting Gryffindor,” she said dreamily. “Hermione helped me with a few spells, but it was relatively simple. I had hoped to enchant a snake for the lion to chew on, but hopefully I’ll have it next time. It was a rather sudden idea.”

Fleur nodded, her heart still recovering from the shock induced by the hat. “I see. Well, you’ve done a marvelous job, indeed.”

“Why, thank you, Fleur,” The girl said, looking very pleased with herself.

“So, what exactly is Quidditch?” Fleur asked softly, turning her attention back to Hermione. “It wasn’t very big at Beauxbaton’s.” Hermione smiled warmly, and set to explaining the rules of the game, the names of balls, and the positions of the players. When the game began, it was with an uproar of approval from both sides. Ron looked pale and shaky on his broom, Harry high above the others in search of the Snitch.

Throughout the game, Ron found himself the laughing stock of the Slytherins as they sang at the top of their voices. He lost several saves, allowing Slytherin a thirty-nil lead over Gryffindor. Finally, he managed a risky save, the twigs of his broom blocking the Quaffle’s passage through the left hoop. The Gryffindors roared their approval, Luna’s hat joining in their mirth. Ron looked relieved, and leaped into the game with greater enthusiasm than before, blocking several more goals and finally, Gryffindor took a ten-point lead. Harry, absolutely frantic, wheeled about in the air, desperate for the Snitch. He locked his eyes on it and followed in fast pursuit, flying dangerously close to the Gryffindor box. He crashed to the ground, the Snitch fluttering in his hand.

Cheers broke out from the box, groans and loud disappointment from the Slytherins opposite them. Fleur, half confused and her attention divided, joined in when Hermione shouted loudly with joy, which quickly turned to a shriek when she saw Harry’s fist connect with Malfoy’s stomach, George Weasley taking leaping strides towards the green-clad players, his Beater’s bat raised. Madame Hooch sent a powerful spell at the lot, knocking them backwards to keep them from killing one another.

“What happened?” Fleur whispered to Hermione, rising to her feet in an attempt to see. Within moments, the teams had dispersed, Harry and George’s retreating figures briskly headed to the castle, undoubtedly to McGonagall’s office. Fleur and Hermione quickly left the box, and without the threat of Umbridge lurking around the corner, certain she would be doling out punishments to the other two, they sat together in the Common Room, waiting for them to arrive. Ron had already come and gone, mumbling acknowledgement of the two women. When Harry and George did enter through the portrait-hole, their faces were red, their eyes angry, and their hands were shaking with the effort to keep still.

“We’ve been banned.” Harry growled.

“Fred, too.” George added testily.

“What? That leaves only four players!” Hermione shrieked.

“Too bad.” Harry snarled. “We’re banned. For life. Unless Umbridge expires first.”

Hermione sighed heavily, but didn’t give voice to any further thought. Fleur wrung her hands together, wishing she had more power over the situation, more influence to help Harry. But nothing could be done. Optimism was a dream, a chance, a mere manifestation of possibility. The D.A. would soon be all Harry had to live for, the only thing to keep him looking forward, to keep him working, if only for the sake of taunting Umbridge with the very thing she and the Ministry feared and hated most.

The lions dismissed themselves in minutes, stomping up to their dormitories, their anger laden in their stride, but defeat weighed their shoulders down. Fleur sighed, taking Hermione’s hands into her own and pulled her to her feet. They walked silently to Hermione’s dormitory, collapsing onto her bed in a heap of limbs before they found their preferred sleeping arrangements, Hermione tucked against Fleur’s chest, snuggled beneath her chin. The blonde’s arms formed tight circles around the Gryffindor, her heart beating strong beneath her ear.

“At least he still has the D.A.” She spoke up softly. Hermione nodded silently from her shoulder. “He can’t lose his fire, Hermione. It’s kept him going, kept him alive. I can’t see how he’d ever continue without it.”

The brunette sighed. “He wouldn’t. Even the Sorting Hat told him he has this drive, this need to prove himself. He’s been under a lot of stress, and Voldemort’s emotions are bleeding through into his dreams. He keeps dreaming of a hall, a room he can’t place. He doesn’t know what it is or what’s behind it, but every time he dreams about it, he says it seems more aggressive, dire that he learn.”

Fleur frowned, chewing her lip gently. Hermione drew a sharp breath and released in an irritated huff, holding the blonde tighter. “Has there been any word yet on Hagrid’s return?” She asked, hoping to distract the Gryffindor.

“No, not yet,” she murmured. “No one has any answers, and if they do, they’re not sharing them. I just hope everything’s alright…” Fleur kissed her forehead gently, seeing that this subject wasn’t any better than the last. They settled for silence, gently touching one another with knowing fingertips and caresses, massaging away the unwanted thoughts from each other’s minds.

“Will you stay tonight?” Hermione asked quietly.

Fleur balked for several long seconds. She considered them lucky, having gone all day without so much as an unfortunate pass with Umbridge in the hallways. Would a night really be pressing such luck?

“It’s Saturday night, I’m sure you’ll be able to sneak out in the morning,” Hermione added when Fleur remained silent. “And we could borrow Harry’s map. We’ll be careful.”

The French witch sighed heavily. “I cannot sleep without you, you know,” She murmured. Hermione snuggled closer to the Veela, nuzzling firmly against her.

“I know. I don’t rest very easily either. I already need another vial of your father’s potion,”

“I’ll be sure to provide in the morning.” Even in the darkness, she could see the brunette’s eyes looking up at her with hope.

“So you’ll stay?” Fleur met her lips with a soft sigh, melding her body to the lioness, reveling in the warmth that built between the two. They fell asleep together, wrapped in limbs and tangled sheets, but contentedly all the same. How easily unfortunate things can be forgotten with one’s love pressed against their body. As if their breath, their warmth, their kisses can chase away every memory or thought of sadness and misfortune. Even in their dreams, they were untouched by such afflictions as pain or sorrow, but neither were they granted peace or joy in sleep. It was nerveless, thoughtless, unknowing, but far more preferred than the latter as they were allowed sleep itself, which was more than what Harry was granted as he stared at the ceiling until morning’s light breached the dark masses of night.


	9. Patronuses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, guys here's another. I'm sorry my updating is so inconsistent, but I'm in the process of joining the military, and I don't know when I'll be leaving for Basic Training. I really want to give you all at least one chapter of sexy before then, so please keep checking in. We're nearing both Christmas-time and the sexy now! Hope you enjoy, and thank you all for your lovely comments.   
> Much love,   
> RC

Hagrid had returned near the end of November, bearing with him a great story of his absence and of the mission Dumbledore had sent him on. The tale unsettled the three Gryffindors, who, without question, rushed to his cabin the moment they noticed his light was on. The giant was horribly beaten, the better half of his face was terribly bruised, one eye swollen shut, and several teeth missing. After he’d made tea and poured a cup for each of them, he sat down in a large chair with a sigh, slapping a large cut of purple meat over the bruises on his face. 

“So he thinks that Voldemort is going to try to use the giants?” Hermione asked when he’d finished his tale, recounting the run-in with Death Eaters, the giants, and the rise of a new Gurg.

Hagrid jumped so violently, his tea sloshed over the brim. Ron shuddered. “When did yeh start sayin’ his name?” he boomed, incredibly shell-shocked.

Hermione shrugged. “I refuse to fear a name.” She murmured.

Hagrid shook his head. “Fleur’s influence no doubt,” he muttered. “Yeah, we think he’s goin’ ter use them again.”

“But you didn’t get caught by either the new Gurg or the Death Eaters, so who attacked you?” Before the question could be answered, there was loud knock from the cabin door. The shadow of a small, squat body rippled across the curtain. Hermione jumped, and sent her mug sailing to the floor with a loud crash. The three of them hastily covered themselves with the cloak, huddling into the corner as closely packed together as they could.

“Hagrid! Our mugs!” Harry whispered, his voice mercifully covered by Fang’s barking at the door. Hagrid nodded and stashed them away as quickly as possible before turning to the door.

Hermione felt the familiar feeling of fear creeping though her stomach as the door opened and the light spilled upon Umbridge. In this state of hyper-awareness, she also noticed that Ron had grown much taller than she where she was pressed against his chest in desperation to fit all three of them into the corner.

“So,” Umbridge began, talking loudly as if afraid he could hear her or understand what she was saying. “You’re Hagrid, are you?” Without waiting for an answer, she maneuvered around Hagrid’s massive form, and entered the cabin, her beady eyes darting around every inch of the space. “Get away,” she snapped at Fang, swatting at him with her handbag.

“I don’ want ter be rude, but who the ruddy hell are you?” Hagrid asked.

“My name is Dolores Umbridge.” She never skipped a beat of her sweeping eyes, twice staring directly at the space where Hermione stood. She wrinkled her nose and lifted her chin, Ron’s stuble irritating the sensitive skin of her temple as she did.

“Dolores Umbridge,” Hagrid murmured. “I thought you were one o’ them Ministry—don’ you work with Fudge?”

“I was Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, yes,” she answered, beginning to pace around the cabin. “I am now the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—”

“Tha’s brave of yeh, there’s not many’d take tha job anymore—”

“—and Hogwarts’ High Inquisitor,” Said Umbridge, as if she hadn’t heard him.

“What’s that?”

“Precisely what I was going to ask,” She said, pointing at the shattered remains of Hermione’s mug on the floor.

“Oh,” Hagrid murmured, glancing to the corner. “Tha was Fang, he broke a mug.”

“I heard voices.”

“I was talkin’ ter Fang,” He returned stoutly.

“And he was talking back to you?”

“Well, in a manner of speakin’—”

“There are three sets of footprints in the snow leading from the castle to your doorstep.” Umbridge interrupted.

“Well, I only jus’ got back, maybe someone came to call me earlier an’ I missed ‘em.”

“There aren’t any footprints leading away from your door.”

“Well, I don’ know why that’d be…” He said, tugging nervously at his beard. Umbridge wheeled around and carefully inspected the cabin, going so far as to even look under the bed and in the cupboards. She passed within inches of the three, each of them pulling their stomachs in as she did so, breath frozen in their throats, petrified that their heart beats might give them away. Hermione silently thanked the god that influenced Fang’s near-constant panting. When her search came up empty, she turned to Hagrid, her original mission hardly forgotten.

“What has happened to you? How did you sustain those injuries?”

Hagrid hastily adjusted the cut of meat on his face, the angry-looking bruise now concealed again. “I had a bit of an accident,”

“What sort of accident?”

“I-I tripped.”

“You tripped,” Umbridge repeated coolly.

“Yeah, tha’s right. Over a friend’s broomstick. I don’t fly, meself. Well, look at the size o’ me, I don’ reckon there’s a broomstick that’d hold me. Friend o’ mine breeds Abraxan horses, I dunno if you’ve ever seen ‘em, big beasts, winged, yeh know, I’ve had a bit of a ride on one o’ them an’ it was—”

“Where have you been?” Umbridge asked, smoothly interrupting his rambling.

“Where’ve I…?”

“Been, yes. Term started two months ago, another teacher has had to cover your classes, and none of your colleagues seems to be able to give me any information on your whereabouts. You left no address. Where have you been?”

“I—I’ve been away for me health.” He said after several long moments.

“For your health,” Umbridge repeated, studying his injuries. “I see.”

“Yeah, bit o’ fresh air, you know—”

“Yes, because fresh air must be terribly hard to come by as gamekeeper.”

“Well—change o’ scene, you know—”

“Mountain scenery?” Asked Umbridge swiftly. Hermione’s heart dropped to her stomach. _She knows._

“Mountains?” Hagrid asked. “Nope, South of France for me. Bit o’ sun an’… an’ sea.”

“You don’t have much of a tan,” Umbridge observed.

“Sensitive skin, yeh see.”

Umbridge studied him for a long moment, considering, before lifting her handbag higher on the crook of her arm. “I shall, of course, be informing the Ministry of your late return,”

“Righ’,”

“You ought to know, too, that as High Inquisitor it is my unfortunate duty to inspect my fellow teachers. So I daresay we shall meet again soon enough.”

“You’re inspectin’ us?” Hagrid asked, surprised.

“Oh yes. The Ministry is committed to weeding out unsatisfactory teachers, Hagrid. Good night.” With that, she turned and strode out of the door back into the night.

The heat was sweltering beneath the cloak, and Hermione could barely stand it, even as she held the boys back from removing it. “She might not be back at the castle,” she murmured, loud enough for Hagrid to hear. He looked through the curtain before motioning to the three.

“It’s alrigh’, she’s gone.” The relief of the cool air was like drawing breath after a deep dive into particularly hot waters, and the Gryffindors found themselves in no mood for hot tea. “Blimey, so she’s inspectin’ people is she?”

“Yeah,” Harry managed, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Trelawney’s on probation already.”

“Merlin’s beard!” Hagrid exclaimed. “Well, with the stuff I’ve got planned for you lot, I’m sure she’ll be impressed!”

“Hagrid,” Hermione whispered. “You _have_ to be careful. She’s taking more and more power from the teachers, and even from Dumbledore! You’ve got to pass Umbridge’s inspection, or you’ll be sacked too! Please, teach us mundane things, like how to tell the difference between knarls and hedgehogs, that sort of thing,”

Hagrid sighed heavily, and cast a longing glance at the vast bed in the corner. “That stuff’s not very interestin’, Hermione, and I’ve bin savin’ this for yer fifth year for a while now. Don’ worry abou’ me, now go on and get back to the castle.” He patted her shoulder gently, as if to soothe her worries, but the weight of his hand nearly brought her to the floor. “Oh, sorry ‘bout that. Anyway, don’ forget to wipe your footprints out behind ya!” And with that, he ushered the three out of his cabin.

They huddled under the cloak together, Hermione casting spells on the snow to rid the marks they left, muttering to herself. The boys did not ask, nor speak as they silently made their way through the castle, hoping that her muttering wasn’t loud enough to entice Peeves or alarm Flitch.

 

 

Sunday afternoon brought a new blanket of snow, and a defeated Hermione, after attempting once more to convince Hagrid of the dangers of Umbridge. Hermione practically begged Hagrid to allow her to plan his lessons, but he refused curtly. When she asked of his worsening bruises, he didn’t answer, only sent back to the castle with more questions and fewer answers. She confided in both the boys and Fleur, but neither had any token or hint of what he was up to or what he was planning. Fleur seemed rather surprised herself to learn that Madame Maxime had accompanied the gamekeeper on his mission, swearing she hadn’t been in contact with her old headmistress since graduation.

The following Tuesday, Fleur raced up through the caverns of Gringott’s bank. A particularly old vault had gone untouched for apparently the past century, and thus had attracted a number of foul creatures to mate in its vicinity. Bill ran behind her, laughing manically, the two crashing into a crevice to avoid a swarm of pixies. With quick spells, they Stunned the lot, gathered them up, and took them to the ground floor where another worker would release them humanely. The two trotted back down into the depths, dangerously close to the edge of the path as they chose against the carts that carried visitors to their vaults, preferring to walk and run and chase. The Veela loved to run, even with the danger of falling ever present, and found she enjoyed the burn in her legs and the stretch of her ribs. She knew this was what kept her exhausted, but the thrill was worth it, and if Dumbledore’s foretelling of Voldemort was any reason to train, this was more than the ideal location. The Veela had taught her that fear was a weapon that could cripple a strong warrior, and one must learn to hide their fear to keep the weapon from the hands of enemies.

And what better time to learn that control than here, racing along the rock faces, battling creatures awakened from sleep, danger around every corner? In the short weeks since the Veela had taken the job, she knew the caverns like the back of her hand. She knew where the stone was crumbling, she knew where to jump, to hide, which tunnel would empty where, all invaluable pieces of information that she had on hand, ready to pull from the archives of her mind and put to use while her body performed its own tasks.

More often than not, she and Bill were chastised, the goblins saying they had too much fun and not enough work. But to the dauntless Veela, the danger in itself was fun, the fact that she was getting paid for it made it more than a bargain. Even with this, even as she and Bill laughed danger in the face, their work was unhindered by this play. They were always careful, always keenly aware of their footfalls and surroundings, and that was what set them apart from the other adrenaline-junkies that played and died in the vaults. They knew they could outrun pixies and even the giant spiders they sometimes came across, but they always knew when the danger was potent and, through the unspoken bond of allies, when play was finished and serious spell-work was needed.

Fleur had told Hermione most of her adventures through the caverns, and put the lioness at ease with her knowledge of Bill and how incredibly careful they really were, reminding her again of all the time she’d spent with the Veela. She seemed unconvinced, but after having watched the Veela’s skills and reflexes strengthen throughout the Tournament, trusted in her judgment.

 

Hermione’s Tuesday, however, was not quite as exciting as Fleur’s, but perhaps equally nerve-wracking in some aspects. Umbridge was nowhere to be seen on their trek to Hagrid’s hut, but her absence did not soothe any of the three. Hagrid, his wounds unhealed (if not worse), happily lead the group of fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins into the Forbidden Forest, Hermione’s anxiety only growing when he paused to lift half of a dead cow to his shoulder. They walked for about ten minutes, no strangers to the Forest, and soon came to a stop. Hagrid unceremoniously dumped the cow on the ground, looking pleased despite his bruises.

“Righ’, now what we’re studyin’ today is pretty rare, I reckon I’m probably the on’y person in Britain who’s managed ter train ‘em,” A few hushed whispers of distaste rustled through the gathered students, but no one raised their voices any higher. “Now, they’ll be attracted to the smell, but I’m goin’ ter give ‘em a call anyway, ‘cause they’ll like ter know it’s me,” He said. With that, he turned, shook the hair from his face, and gave a strange, shrieking cry that echoed off the trees like the call of some monstrous bird. No one spoke, much less laughed, for the sound in itself was bone-chilling, even though it was made by a gentle soul.

Hagrid gave the cry again, and for long moments, nothing happened. Members of the class began to peer nervously over classmate’s shoulders and around at the trees, unsure of where the mysterious creature would approach from. Harry was the first to become antsy, looking around at Hermione and Ron respectively, then back a particular spot. The other two Gryffindors kept scanning the trees, hoping for a sign of movement.

“Oh, and here comes another one!” Hagrid cried, even though nothing was to be seen amongst the trees. “Now, put yer hands up, who can see ‘em?” Harry, Neville, and a pale Slytherin boy raised their hands. “Ah, I knew you’d be able ter, Harry—”

“Excuse me,” Malfoy began in a scornful tone. “What exactly are we supposed to be seeing?” Hagrid smiled, and pointed to the cow carcass. Upon closer inspection, Hermione saw that bits of meat were stripping themselves from bone, and disappearing into thin air. Parvati squealed, and huddled against a tree in terror. Hermione, however, racked her brains for an explanation. She’d read something somewhere, she knew, but what exactly was it?

“What’s doing it?” Parvati demanded. “What’s eating it?”

“Thestrals,” Hagrid said proudly. So _that_ was it! Hermione nearly slapped her own forehead when comprehension donned on her. Of course! It was the book she’d read during her first year, _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them._ Even though she could not see the thestrals, she recalled an illustration of such a creature; blank, white eyes, leathery skin, features that were almost dragon in nature, skeletal bodies, and large, spindly, featherless wings, and a long, black mane and tail. When directly compared, as Hermione did now from memory, the illustration looked nothing like Shamin, nor like Fleur’s horses, but a strange, alien mix between the two, and perhaps even a third species.

“Hogwarts,” Hagrid continued, “Has got a whole herd of ‘em in here. Now, who knows—”

“But they’re really, _really_ unlucky!” Parvati interrupted loudly. “They’re supposed to bring all sorts of ill tidings—”

“No, no, no; that’s just superstition! They aren’ unlucky, in fact they’re dead clever and very useful! ‘Course, this lot don’ get a lot o’ work, mainly pullin’ the school carriages unless Dumbledore’s takin’ a long journey an’ don’ want ter Apparate. Righ’, can someone tell me why some o’ you can see ‘em and some o’ you can’t?”

Hermione’s hand shot in the air.

“Go on, then,” Hagrid said, beaming at her.

“The only people that can see them are people who’ve seen death,” She answered simply, the passages of the book coming back to her mind with ease.

“Tha’s exactly right, ten points to Gryffindor! Now, thestrals have ‘mazin’ senses o’ direction, jus’ tell ‘em where yeh want ter go—”

“ _Hem, hem.”_ Hermione’s heart dropped. Her blood ran frigid.

“Oh hello!” Hagrid said smiling. “Glad yeh found the place all righ’!”

The rest of the lesson passed in anxious torment as Umbridge continued treating Hagrid as though he were too incompetent to understand English, twisting his words around against them. Her eyes burned with angry, unshed tears that she refused to let fall, and as soon as the class had dismissed, the three trudged back up to castle where they heatedly discussed Umbridge and her unjust attitude towards part-humans as well as when the next D.A. meeting should take place.

 

Christmas loomed nearer, and with it the less-than-enthusiastic arrival of the last D.A. meeting of the year. Fleur’s mentees has progressed beautifully under her watchful eye, while the Veela herself was under Hermione’s careful stare. She loved watching Fleur work with the other students, how easily she took hits for them as they trained their aim, how they responded so well to her criticism, how gently it was given and how highly she praised their success. When she squared off with Harry, as they were nearly the same skill level since their practice for the Tournament, she was lethal. She moved with fluid grace, her wand loose in her fingertips but her wrist was so tightly controlled every spell hit its mark. But Harry was just as quick, and for each hit Fleur landed, he returned with a swift flick. The duel was called by Hermione, declaring that they were far too even a match and if they were to continue, they would never leave the Room of Requirement.

Instead, Hermione herself took Harry’s place, her wand held tightly in her fingers, the ghost of a smile on her lips. Fleur flashed her a grin, and took her stance. Hermione was the first to strike, and sent the Veela sprawling backwards.

“Not even a bow, love?” Fleur asked, rising to her feet.

“A Death Eater wouldn’t bow,” Hermione shrugged, never lowering her wand. Fleur straightened her blouse and brushed the hair from her face, smiling at the lioness.

“I suppose you’re right.” A lightning fast Impediment Jinx soared from the Veela’s wand, striking Hermione’s left side. She felt half her body go numb, but she kept her balance, answering with a curse of her own. The two continued for nearly as long as Fleur and Harry had, until finally, with a series of flourishes and hexes, Hermione’s wand soared through the air and into the Veela’s waiting hand. She smiled winningly at the brunette before she murmured the counter-curse and Hermione regained full use of her body.

“Are you hurt?” Fleur asked, returning the wand to its owner and kissing her gently.

“Only my pride,” Hermione laughed, smiling at the blonde. “You were brilliant, Fleur,”

“As were you, you know—”

“Alright, now, I was thinking we could start some other kinds of defensive magic,” Harry said loudly, gaining everyone’s attention. “We won’t always be fighting Dark wizards or witches, but creatures, too, and it’s very important you should know to protect yourself. The Patronus Charm is relatively easy to master, but you must understand that is won’t be easy to conjure when in danger or afraid. I want you all to think of something very happy, a memory or a family pet, anything, really, and focus on the happiness it brings you. When you feel ready, try using the incantation ‘ _Expecto Patronum_.’ Don’t be afraid if your Patronus begins to take an animal form, it’s quite natural, and it’s honestly the best defense against dementors if you can summon a corporeal.”

Fleur smiled at Harry, silently praising him for the courage he had acquired over the past few months, and turned to Hermione.

“Well, let’s try it, shall we?” Fleur waved her wand, and upon recalling that night in the Astronomy Tower, the silvery lioness materialized before her.

Hermione studied the feline carefully, incredibly interested that the Veela’s Patronus would mirror her own House’s emblem. “Do all the Veela have feline Patronuses?”

Fleur shrugged. “Not all of them are feline, but they tend to be strong or clever creatures. My grandmother’s is a wolf, my mother’s a fox, a cousin of mine is an eagle, and mine is a lioness. Have you ever conjured one?”

Hermione shook her head, passing her wand back and forth in her hands. “No, but I already know what it is,”

Fleur lifted her eyebrows. Instead of responding, the Gryffindor merely lifted her wand, and murmured the incantation. A second lioness sauntered towards the first, where they sat together, looking at their respective casters.

Fleur stared at the felines, struck speechless. She’d known, of course she’d known. But knowing and seeing were two completely different things. And now, before her, her own Patronus nuzzled Hermione’s affectionately.

Hermione smiled, and without looking away from the light, took Fleur’s hand, and she proceeded to whisper a passage from a book to herself. “A Patronus is a physically embodied reflection of one’s soul. When two Patronuses match, it means the souls they come from fit together; halves made whole.”

“It’s just so extraordinary…” Fleur murmured. “I always knew, but to see it, to see _them_ …”

Hermione leaned against the blonde, musing as she tried to pet Fleur’s lion. “It is interesting, isn’t it?” she said softly, stretching to kiss Fleur’s cheek. “Has there been any research done on the Veela and their Patronuses?”

Fleur shook her head. “Not really, sadly. The Veela aren’t a very scientific people, though I do suppose it would be interesting to study. So far, all we know is that most often, a mate’s Patronus will match their Veela’s, if not before acceptance, definitely after. My father’s had been a falcon before he accepted my mother.”

“Really?” Hermione asked. “Why is that? All throughout the book, it spoke about how the Veela is bent towards the mate, why would the Patronus change in favor of the Veela?”

“I see I skipped out on some of the information,” Fleur chuckled. “I must apologize; the book was mainly to give you clearer insight and understanding to the courtship, I suppose I should have offered more than that. Anyway, after accepting their Veela, the mate tends to experience changes of their own. We may be bent towards the wish and will of our mate, but it doesn’t mean that the Veela soul is docile. It begins melding with the soul of our mate, even before the finishing of the ritual. After we’re completely mated, it might seem like we share a soul. Even though we haven’t finished, I can already see some parts of the Veela showing in you. You hold yourself higher, walker prouder, grace follows your shadow.”

Hermione looked down at her feet. She’d never thought of herself as graceful before, but looking back, she saw that it had been quite a while since she’d tripped over her own feet or underestimated the height of a step. “And what will change after we finish? Will I actually be considered Veela?”

Fleur shrugged. “More physical things begin happening. The senses sharpen, you’ll feel the urge to run or loathe sitting still, those sorts of things. Maybe then you’ll be able to keep up with me, hm?” Fleur laughed, receiving a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“You can be sure of that,” Hermione chuckled.

“Anyway, you will be considered Veela as far as the tribes go. Your soul and mine will have melded together, giving you half of a quarter-Veela’s. Your body will have its own adaptation, you’ll probably grow a few more inches, build muscle far more easily, things like that. Your mind is your own, so that will remain the same for the most part, however, you may find that your… concern for certain things might change. I can only imagine what could happen if Umbridge tried to cross you.”

Hermione’s thoughts turned to her first vie with Umbridge, remembering the fire that had welled up inside her. She’d never felt anything like it before, but at the time, she’s brushed it off as Gryffindor pride, but now it seemed different. It reminded her of the Tournament, when Fleur was deemed a Champion, and all the displays of pride and power shown there. Her pride had not merely been Gryffindor pride, but Veela, too, all before they had even truly spoken about finishing the ritual.

 “It is beautiful, though, all these souls,” Fleur said, pulling her from her thoughts as she watched others produce their Patronuses. Luna let out a cry from a short distance away from the pair, and a long-legged hare raced by the lions, whom, despite their nature, did not give chase. Fleur chuckled as the hare began to tease a dog that resembled a terrier, initiating play. “And so true, too. The hare so clearly reflects Luna, and the stag Harry, and the terrier Ron. It’s remarkable, really,” She murmured. Dropping her wand, she bade farewell to her lioness, the counterpart took her leave after the first had gone.

Hermione wove her fingers between Fleur’s, and they found free seats on the cushions in the corner, content to watch the spell-casting continue. “How does my acceptance affect you, if it’s affected me?”

“Well, I’m much more… human, now. Before I met you, I didn’t have anything to care about other than Gabrielle. Everywhere I went, drool, jealousy, false friendship and rumors followed me. It was exhausting, and I could never seem to do anything right. While the other girls were going out, I was staying in, usually studying, and so I rose to the top of my class. That set me as yet another standard they felt intimidated by. They attacked me, accusing me of charming their love interests, or my professors even. They wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell them about my culture, what predispositions I was born with. My mother always told me not to try, but for some reason, I thought I could make a difference.” She chuckled sadly, absently picking at a thread on her cushion.

 “I stopped caring after about two years, because I finally realized there wasn’t a correct decision to be made, that they would still find a reason to loathe me. So I turned to art, and it was my sole companion for four years. And then I met you, and Harry, and neither of you lost your head around me, or stuttered, and I thought, ‘Finally! I can have a friend!’” She shook her head with a sad smile. “That’s why I stood up for Harry so much during the Tournament. He was one of my only friends, and I knew how much it hurt to be attacked for something that wasn’t your fault. I couldn’t let him face it alone. Looking back, even before the recognition, I can see when the changes started taking place, but after you accepted me, it skyrocketed. The jealousy is far less prominent, the drool is still quite irritating, but it doesn’t flow in rivers now. I can hold conversations with people, I can tutor them without their eyes becoming glassy.” She said, gesturing to the group of flourishing students she had taken under her wing.

“I caused that change in you? With one kiss?” Hermione asked quietly.

Fleur nodded, meeting her eyes. “And it’ll only continue.” She dropped a kiss on Hermione’s cheek. “Thank you,”

The lioness rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Fleur, it’s not like I hated the idea of being with you and merely gave you a favor,” she laughed.

Fleur chuckled beside her. “I know, but it feels so much better now, and if you hadn’t accepted, then I wouldn’t know any of this,”

Hermione turned the thought over in her mind, and another question bubbled to the surface. “Do you have a grandfather?”

Fleur shrugged. “Somewhere, I suppose. My father’s father died a few years ago, and my grandmother was born without a mate. She chose to have a baby with a human, and raised my mother with the Veela away from him. He never wanted to see her, and so Mama grew up with the Veela without questioning. It’s not really that uncommon in the tribes, almost like the Amazons, but Mama didn’t kill her father,” she chuckled. “We don’t think too much about it. With so many cousins and sisters, the love there is too abundant to allow sorrow.”

Hermione nodded, a frown marring her features as she thought. Finally, she looped her arm around Fleur’s shoulder, pulling her against her body. “Have you any plans for the upcoming holiday?”

The blonde’s eyebrows pulled together in the subject change, but allowed it to go unquestioned. “Not as of yet, but I was planning on seeing my family on Christmas. Why do you ask?”

“My parents are taking me skiing, and we were interested if you’d like to come along,” She shrugged.

“Skiing?”

“You don’t know what it is either?” Hermione laughed. “I thought Beauxbaton’s offered Muggle Studies?”

“They do, I just… I wasn’t that interested in it to begin with,” Fleur murmured, embarrassed. “By the time we got together, it was too late to switch into the class…”

“Well, you can have a first-hand experience then.” She decided. “The invitation was already extended. How much time will you have off?”

“They’re shutting down for the week. We’ve been busy with building tighter security measures just for it, even though the goblins won’t leave the building.”

Hermione nodded, pleased. “Great! We’ll have a whole week together,” She said decidedly.

Harry called the group to order, loudly praising Neville, for he had improved beyond measure over the course of the meetings, and wished everyone a happy holiday. In the usual twos and threes, they left, Fleur and Hermione taking their leave together as they saw Harry purposefully hanging back, Cho doing her best to busy herself with mundane tasks to delay her departure.

The Veela chuckled, shaking her head as she stepped through the passage with Hermione. “Poor lad is love-struck,”

“He is?” Hermione asked, looking back, only to be met with the sight of the door closing and melting away into stone.

“Indeed he is,” She sighed. “And good luck to him,”

“Will you stay tonight?” Hermione asked after a few minutes.

“I’m afraid not, dearest. I’m lucky I made it to the meeting this evening; the goblins haven’t had any mercy on us this week. I’d like to get to bed early tonight, and sleep in a long as possible tomorrow morning. Either way, we’ll be together tomorrow night.” She leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I’ll meet you at your parent’s home after work?”

Hermione nodded, smiling. “Okay then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” She caught the Veela’s lips briefly, and the two parted, silently slinking through the corridors in a smooth, practiced manner.

 

When Harry arrived in the common room, he seemed distant, confused, stumbling around as if he couldn’t decide to sit or stand.

“What is it Harry?” Hermione asked, looking up from her revised Potions essay. He nodded numbly.

“What’s going on, mate?” Ron asked, abandoning the ember he was toying with in the hearth.

Hermione studied him for a moment, then raised her eyebrows. “You kissed her.” Ron looked back and forth between the two, excitedly.

“No way!” Harry said nothing, but continued his stare, finding a particular spot on the wall very interesting.

“Well, did you?” Hermione asked.

Finally, he nodded. Ron let out a loud whoop, bouncing up from the floor.

“How was it?”

“It was… wet.” He said at last. Ron’s eyes grew wide, and Hermione looked at him, apparently scandalized. “Because she was crying, I mean.”

“Oh… you that bad at kissing?”

“Of course he’s not, Cho spends a lot of her time crying these days,” Hermione said, drawing herself away from the surprise of Fleur’s earlier statement.

“You’d think a bit of kissing would cheer her up,” Ron murmured.

Hermione sighed heavily, and spent the next half hour schooling the boys on the many intricate and unfortunate emotions females are capable of experiencing at once. They watched her rant with incredulous expressions as she spoke about how conflicting feelings subsequently can cause feelings of anxiety and guilt, apparently appalled that such paradoxes could physically exist. By the end of her tirade, Ron looked as though he had actually learned something, and Harry seemed terrified.

“Well, I suppose if either of us needs help with girls, you’re the one to come to,” Ron said, rising up from the floor again as they began the trek to their rooms. “Though I do think a class on how girls’ brains work would be more beneficial than Divination… perhaps we can talk to Dumbledore about it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, and bid them good night, offering Harry a last bit of advice before turning to the opposite staircase. “Try to understand where she’s coming from.”


	10. St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! We have one chapter left until the sexy. So get ready! Anyways, this chapter is almost completely canon, I literally had the book open, and traced the lines with my finger as I wrote this. It's also rather long, but a lot happens, and I'm sorry if it's hard to follow (please tell me if it is, I'll be glad to fix it or elaborate further). Hope you enjoy!  
> Much love,  
> RC

The next day, Hermione saw neither hide nor hair of Harry, or any of the Weasley clan. Before she left for Hogsmeade, she asked everyone she came across, but no one had any more information than she had herself. Several times, McGonagall had a peculiar expression whenever she passed, but each time the elder witch glanced over her shoulder to see Umbridge staring her down and only gave her a small smile or a nod. With great effort, she pushed the thoughts aside, and bundled up against the winter onslaught. It had snowed the night before, but the temperature had risen and the ice thawed, leaving the well-trodden path slick, muddy, and treacherous.

Hermione carefully picked her way down, maneuvering around other students as a few first years slipped in front of her. Her trunk levitated behind her, safe from the mud and the other, clumsier students. Arriving safely at the train, she relinquished her spell, and boarded. Again, Harry and Ron’s absence stabbed at her, but she found a cubicle with Luna and Neville, which made for a very interesting ride home.

Her parents greeted her warmly at King’s Cross and treated her to lunch in the same quaint café they always visited when she came home. They inquired of everything, delighted that Fleur would be accompanying them to the ski resort, and deeply worried in Umbridge’s involvement in the school. Fleur had personally visited them shortly after the interception of owls began, warning them of the potential dangers writing Hermione posed. Their worry had begun with that visit and only mounted as the school year continued, but Fleur had been happy to task Thraso as carrier and deliverer of letters between the family. Using the special spell, it was easy to deliver the letters directly to Hermione when they arrived, and to send Thraso on her way when Hermione wrote back to them.

They spoke of the boys and their well-being, even though Hermione had yet to hear from them. When the table was cleared, and the check paid, they ventured out into the cold again, arriving home within the hour. The sky was dark, the sun shut out by the clouds, promising another bout of snow. Once inside, Hermione took to half-unpacking a few necessary belongings, and met her parents in the parlor for tea shortly after.

As the hours lazed by, Hermione busied herself with the homework assigned for the break, an easy distraction and happy habit. She had completed most of her work when her father demanded she cease her study, and join him in watching a beloved Muggle Christmas show about a reindeer who had a particularly shiny nose. She delighted in this childhood favorite, and curled under a blanket to watch.

Fleur arrived much later than expected, the dinner dishes already cleared away, looking exhausted and stressed. Hermione greeted her with a kiss and worriedly inspected the other witch.

“We’ve just finished dinner, I can warm it back up for you if you want,” Jean offered, but Fleur only shook her head. “What’s wrong, dear?” the Granger matriarch asked, catching a glance at the blonde’s drawn features and worried expression.

“It’s Mr. Weasley.” Jean and Thomas took intent interest at the name, stopping their current tasks and focusing on Fleur.

“What’s happened?” Thomas asked softly.

Fleur looked back and forth between the three, and sighed heavily. “I don’t expect any of you to understand, hell, I don’t myself. He was attacked while on duty last night. Snake bites.” She looked pointedly at Hermione, who looked sick with worry at the words. Jean and Thomas exchanged anxious looks with one another. “He’s been in the hospital, and he’s stable, but they’re having trouble healing him. Bill and I did what we could, the goblins have taught us a few really good spells, but even they haven’t had much influence on the wounds. I really do apologize, but the Order has asked me to look after Harry and continue doing what I can for Mr. Weasley. Perhaps I can come with you next year?” Fleur said softly, looking between Jean and Thomas.

“Can you take us to see him?” Jean asked softly, disregarding any worry to Fleur’s withdrawal from the trip.

Fleur turned the thought over in her mind. “I believe that would be all right. We’ll have to drive into London, though.”

Thomas nodded, and got up from his chair. Jean went to the stove and made soup, rather quickly for Muggle methods, and stowed it away in a thermos for Mr. Weasley. Within an hour, the family was ready to go, and Fleur carefully directed them to a lot a short walk away from St. Mungo’s Hospital. Fleur had ridden in a car before, but even with the past experience, she still found herself motion-sick and squeamish. Hermione stroked her hand and snuggled close to her, doing whatever she could to offer comfort.

When they arrived, the cold air was a near-instant fix, and Fleur was alert and ready, scanning the alleys and streets for any potential danger. She strode to a shop window, which boasted several dummies modeling styles at least ten years out of date.

“We’re here to see Arthur Weasley. I have two Muggles with me, they’re very close friends of his. Please allow us entrance.”

To Hermione’s surprise, the nearest dummy nodded, and hand-in-hand, they all passed through the glass. The witch behind the counter looked up at Fleur for a moment, then returned her attention to her magazine, apparently acquainted.

The Veela confidently led them down a series of halls, and eventually knocked on a door. Bill poked his head out, and enthusiastically greeted and welcomed them all into the room. Mr. Weasley was sitting up in bed, curiously trying to peek around Bill.

“Arthur!” Thomas said, shaking hands with him after Bill and Fleur had seated themselves. “It’s been too long, and I’m sorry it’s on such terrible conditions!”

“Ah, Thomas! Indeed it has! And hello to you, too, Jean. Hermione,” He added, hugging the lioness.

“We brought this for you; be careful, it just came off the stove,” Jean murmured, handing the thermos to Mr. Weasley. He was fascinated by the cup, and asked nearly every question under the sun about it. Bill excused himself to fetch a cup of coffee, closing the door softly behind him. Fleur watched the procession from a seat by the window with a small smile, glad to see his strength returning.

“What exactly happened, Fleur?” Hermione whispered.

The Veela bit her lip. “Harry’s dream, you know, the one with the corridor?” Hermione nodded, her brow knit. “He dreamt of it again last night. This time, something changed. He saw the corridor from another viewpoint, he felt his body moving, gliding, across the floor. He saw Arthur, nodding off, and something roused him, and so Harry attacked. He woke up in his bed with Ron over him, trying to wake him, and when he told Dumbledore about it, he sent Tonks, and she found him just as Harry had said. So she brought him here, devised a story to cover the whole thing, and they’ve been trying to close the wounds ever since.”

“Do you think Voldemort is… _possessing_ Harry?” Hermione finally whispered.

Fleur shrugged. “I don’t think so, personally, but a few others seem to. Harry is beside himself, terrified to sleep, won’t eat, hardly speaking to anyone. More than that, he won’t tell anyone that he’s terrified.”

“And how do you know, then?”

“The Veela taught me how to see fear. It chases him. All you have to do is look, Hermione. Fear rests in our movements, our voices, our eyes, even. It takes a lot of practice to hide it, and most people think that by ignoring it, no one can see it. Your mother is worried beyond belief, even as she smiles. Arthur is more frightened than he’ll ever let on, but not for himself. And you,” she said, studying Hermione closely, “You try to hide your fear. But fear is like water; if you clench your fist, the water runs freely through the cracks inevitably made.”

“And what about you? How are you feeling about this whole thing?”

Without skipping a beat, Fleur answered. “I’m terrified, too.”

Bill returned with a two cups of coffee in hand, offering one to the Veela who took it gratefully.

“Hermione,” Jean asked, “You remember getting stitches don’t you? When you cut your hand?”

Dutifully, Hermione recounted the story to Mr. Weasley, while Fleur and Bill exchanged words quietly.

“You think he’s doing any better?” Bill asked.

Fleur shrugged. “He’s worrying more over Harry at the moment.”

“No, I mean, do you think Harry’s doing any better?”

Fleur chewed her cheek. “No, I don’t. I’ll keep an eye on him, while I can. Dumbledore says he’s to begin Occlumency lessons,” Bill nodded, and fell silent.

 

“Thank you all for visiting,” Arthur said brightly, smiling. They spent about two hours in the hospital, during which Bill and Fleur further discussed Mr. Weasley’s condition, and the Grangers went over all they knew about stiches and the procedure therein. “Hopefully I’ll be home before Christmas, and I do think I’ll press more for a few stitches!” Thomas and Jean chuckled, telling him that he could keep the thermos, and wished him a merry Christmas. Fleur escorted them out and back to their car, smiling sadly.

“I wish things could have panned out differently,” she said softly.

“Don’t be silly, dear,” Jean chided. “Nothing could have stopped this or foreseen it. Anyways, there’s always next year!”

Fleur smiled and nodded. “Yes, next year does sound lovely.”

“’Mione?” Thomas asked from the driver’s seat. “Would you rather stay home with us, or help Mrs. Weasley while Arthur’s in the hospital?”

Hermione glanced back and forth between her parents. “But what about—”

“You know as well as we do that you wouldn’t enjoy yourself knowing that your friends are going through a rough time. Harry and Ron are almost your brothers, it seems,” Hermione nodded, biting her lip at the thought. They were her brothers. They got in trouble together, sometimes they even studied together, they fought together, and whenever one of them needed something, the other two always did what they could. Blood only made for a genetic bond, after all. And with the latest fears about Voldemort, she couldn’t bear to leave them alone to fight the battle.

“So you’ll stay with them, then,” Jean decided.

“But I want to see you, too,” Hermione murmured.

“I’ll take care of that, love.” Fleur assured her.

Thomas nodded happily. “Come on then, back home, pack your bags, and off you’ll go again!” He chuckled.

 

When Fleur and Hermione arrived at Number 12, Sirius was overjoyed to see them. His spirits had soared at the prospect of having company over for Christmas, and even decorated the house with tinsel, and garlands, and lit several scented candles to burn. Exchanging quick hugs with the two of them, he reported that Harry was currently upstairs, and that he didn’t advise going there any time soon. Instead, Hermione sat with Ron and Ginny discussing the matter, while Fleur assisted Sirius with decorating.

“How’s Arthur?” He asked, waving his wand to fix garland to a wall.

Fleur sighed. “He’s insisting upon stitches, now. Molly will be livid.”

Sirius chuckled. “Yes, she will.” They worked in silence for a few moments before Fleur lifted her voice again.

“How’s Harry?”

“No better.” Sirius returned grimly. “I don’t blame him, either. It’s too much, he’s only a boy and already has Voldemort looking into his thoughts…”

“Do you think he’s possessing him?”

“No, I don’t. I spoke with Ginny a few hours ago, she was possessed by Voldemort in her first year. What she described is completely different from what Harry said. I think it has something to do with some kind of connection they have. Harry said his wand and Voldemort’s connected during their duel after Cedric had been killed.” He shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, there’s not much to go on, given this has never happened before in history. No research, no clues, nothing.”

“And he hasn’t spoken to Ginny?”

“Not that I know of, though it would be a good idea. Perhaps put him to rest for a bit, knowing that Voldemort’s not possessing him.”

Fleur nodded. “I think I’ll try to persuade them, then. Can you handle the rest of this?”

Sirius nodded, and Fleur returned to Ginny and Hermione. “I think you two should go and have a word with Harry,”

Ginny looked up at her with interest. “Why’s that? Order stuff?”

Fleur shook her head with a small smile. “Not all of my suggestions are given because the Order tells me to give them. No, Sirius and I spoke about it, and since you were possessed by Voldemort yourself, you need to tell him what it’s like because neither Sirius, nor Dumbledore, nor I believe he’s being possessed.”

“What good’ll that do?”

“It could put him at ease knowing that what he has experienced and what you did are two completely different things. Right now, I’m sure he feels guilty for putting your father in the hospital, even though he didn’t do it, it _felt_ like he did. Knowing that he didn’t would help him, and as his friends, that’s what we’re supposed to do; help each other.” Ginny nodded, and stood. Hermione followed suit, nervously casting a look at Fleur. The Veela smiled in reassurance, patting her cheek gently.

Hermione found Harry in Buckbeak’s room, and when she entered, he looked both startled and surprised.

“What’re you doing here? I thought you were skiing with your mum and dad.”

“They decided to wait until next year,” She answered with a wave of her hand. “They knew they couldn’t enjoy themselves knowing a friend was having a rough time, and they knew that I wouldn’t either for the same reason. Let’s go to your room; Mrs. Weasley’s lit a fire and sent up sandwiches.” He shrugged, and followed her downstairs. He was surprised to find both Ron and Ginny in the room waiting, but Fleur was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Fleur?” He asked.

“She didn’t want to intervene,” Ginny answered. “She thought that if she were here, you’d feel like another Order member was just trying to wriggle answers out of you. She does, however, want to speak to you as soon as you like,”

Harry found himself both pleased and disgruntled. While he appreciated Fleur’s sensitivity on the matter, he was also disheartened; she was a friend before she was part of the Order. Surly that would always come first.

“Umbridge was quite livid to find you all disappeared right out from under her nose,” Hermione said. “I wasn’t sure why, I never saw Dumbledore and I didn't get a chance to speak to McGonagall before I left, but I did hear Umbridge muttering about it. Fleur told me once she arrived at my parent’s. Anyway, there are more important matters to discuss. How are you feeling?” She asked softly.

“Fine,” Harry said stiffly.

“Don’t lie to us, Harry.” Ginny spoke up. “We’re your friends—”

“And you’ve all been talking about me, behind my back haven’t you?”

“Harry, you wouldn’t talk to us,” Ron said slowly. “We weren’t talking _about_ you as we were worrying. We couldn’t do anything if you wouldn’t let us. We wanted to talk _to you._ ”

“I didn’t want to talk to anyone,” Harry returned coldly.

“That’s a bit stupid of you.” Ginny growled. “Seeing as I’m the only one who’s been possessed by You-Know-Who and I can tell you how it feels.”

Harry stilled, his pacing interrupted as her words seeped into him. Then he wheeled around to face her, his irritation and anger evaporated. “I forgot.”

“Glad one of us could.”

He looked down at the floor, completely ashamed. “I’m sorry, Ginny,” He said, sincerity thick in his voice. “Can you, can you tell me about it?”

“Well, I remember finding myself in places without knowing how I got there or why. There were a lot of blank spaces; seemed like hours between memories. Does that sound right?”

Harry took a moment and racked his brains. “No, not at all.”

“Then You-Know-Who’s never possessed you.”

Harry found his heart lifting, though he tried desperately to hold it down. “But that dream I had—”

“You’ve had those dreams before,” Hermione reasoned. “You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to last year.”

“This is different,” Harry insisted. “I was inside that snake. It felt like I _was_ that snake… What if Voldemort transported—”

“Harry, one day you will read _Hogwarts, A History,_ and perhaps that will remind you that you can’t Apparate or Disapparate inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort couldn’t just make you fly out of your dormitory.”

“You never left your bed, mate,” Ron said. “I saw you thrashing around in your bed about a minute before we could wake you…”

Harry resumed his pacing in thought. Their words comforted him, and they also made sense. Without thinking, he grabbed a sandwich, and very nearly swallowed it whole, a movement that relieved both Ron and Ginny, for they could not recall the last time he had eaten.

 

 

The next day, the family returned to Mr. Weasley’s bedside. Mrs. Weasley’s keen eye instantly saw that his dressings had been changed, and inquired of the act. Lupin, who had accompanied the entourage, went over to speak with Mr. Weasley’s roommate, a young man who’d been bitten by a werewolf and had no visitors. Bill got up to fetch a cup of tea, the twins eagerly following him. At the sounding of the word ‘stitches,’ Fleur ushered the remaining Weasley brood out the door, and into the hallway, barely closing the door before Mrs. Weasley’s bellows of outrage could be muffled.

Fleur sighed, glancing at Hermione. “Don’t feel bad, love. He was hell-bent on trying them anyway,”

Hermione bit her lip, nodding. “At least it’s closed, now. Hopefully they’ll work.”

 “Have you any idea where the tearoom is?” Ron piped up.

Fleur shook her head. “Bill’s always the one to run for tea, and it looks like he’s long gone.”

Ginny shrugged her shoulders. “No matter. I fancy a walk anyways. No telling how long Mum will rant for,”

The others agreed, and began walking through the corridors aimlessly, eventually finding themselves on the ‘spell damage’ floor.

“Blimey!” Ron exclaimed, looking through a window where a man peered at them, wavy blond hair falling into bright blue eyes, very unlike Fleur’s deep cobalt facets. He wore a large smile, revealing very white, even teeth.

“Is that… Professor Lockhart?” Before anyone could confirm, even though confirmation was far from necessary, the man in question pushed the door open.

“Well, hello there!” He said, shuffling forward in a long dressing gown. “I expect you’d like my autograph, would you?”

“Well, he hasn’t changed much,” Harry murmured softly. Fleur glanced at him in question, and leaned in to hear the soft whisper of “Our second year Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher; his memory’s gone.” The Veela nodded her understanding, and looked at the man sadly.

“Er—hello, Professor,” Ron started “How are you?”

“I’m very well indeed, thank you!” Lockhart replied happily, pulling a battered peacock-feather quill from his pocket. “How many autographs would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you know!”

“We, um, we don’t want any at the moment, thanks.” Harry said, looking rather unsettled. “Um, Professor, shouldn’t you be in a ward?”

The happiness from the man’s face faded away, but he seemed to ignore the question asked. “Haven’t we met?”

“Yeah…” Ginny spoke up. “You used to teach at Hogwarts,”

Lockhart’s eyes widened with surprise. “Teach? Me? Did I?” And then his wide smile graced his features again. “Taught you everything I know, I expect! Well, how about those autographs, now? Shall we say round a dozen, that way you can give them to your friends, and no one will be left out?”

Before anyone could muster up another polite refusal, a motherly-looking Healer poked her head around a door. “Gilderoy, you naughty boy, where have you wandered off to?” She approached the little group, smiling warmly at each of them in turn. “Oh, you’ve got visitors? How nice, and so near Christmas! Do you know, he _never_ gets visitors, I can’t imagine why, he’s such a sweetie, aren’t you?”

“We’re doing autographs!” He told the Healer excitedly. “I hope we have enough photographs!” The Healer smiled kindly at him, and took his arm fondly, leading him back down the corridor.

“Will you step this way? It’s so nice of you to have come to visit him, you see, he’s in a closed ward and the door’s usually locked. Not that he’s dangerous, of course, he just tends to wander and forget his way back. Now, it’s right through here, please make yourselves comfortable.” Any attempt at explanation fell to deaf ears, and instead of fighting, they ducked their heads and entered the ward.

The Healer continued her task of checking in on the other residents after situating Lockhart with a stack of photographs, which he readily took to signing, passing them over to Ginny’s lap after each mark had been made, murmuring about how he wasn’t forgotten and all the fan mail he received, and the constant longing to know why.

“Oh, Mrs. Longbottom, are you leaving already?” The Healer asked suddenly. Harry’s head lifted at the sounding of the name. Harry actually paled, and when his brain registered the moth-eaten fox fur coat, and the stuffed vulture hat, a bead of sweat ran down the back of his neck. Inevitably, the others heard the name and recognized the garb, the confirmation made only firmer when a very depressed-looking Neville came around the flowered curtain.

“Neville!” Ron said excitedly, actually causing the poor boy to jump. Harry long to have stamped on his foot, but the movement would have been all too obvious since they were wearing Muggle clothes instead of robes. Their fellow Gryffindor cowered back, as though a bullet had just narrowly missed him.

“It’s us, Neville!” Ron continued brightly, rising from his chair. “Have you seen? Lockhart’s here! Who’re you visiting?” Harry’s head fell into his hands for a very quick moment, cursing silently.

“Friends of yours, Neville, dear?” asked Neville’s grandmother, peering at them.

Neville found a very interesting tile on the floor, and refused to make eye contact with anyone in the room.

“Ah, yes,” His grandmother continued, extending her hand. “Harry Potter, you two must be Weasleys, yes? Ron and Ginny?” They nodded as they shook her hand. “And Hermione Granger, I take it? And who is this? Fleur Delacour?” The two in question exchanged a look, obviously surprised at being identified.

“Pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle,” Fleur murmured, shaking her hand gently.

“Yes, Neville’s told me all about you. Helped him out of a few sticky spots, I hear. He’s a good boy, but he hasn’t got his father’s talent, I’m afraid,” she said sadly, casting a glance down to the flowered curtain pulled around another bed. Suddenly, things clicked for Hermione. How violently Neville had reacted when Draco had made that comment about mental patients earlier that year, how both Harry and Ron had to restrain him. It made so much terrible, unfortunate sense…

“What do you mean?” Ron asked. Harry and Hermione both had the shared longing to stomp on his toes.

“What’s this?” Mrs. Longbottom said sharply. “Haven’t you told your friends about your parents, Neville?”

Neville took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling, and shook his head. Sympathy surged forth, but even in waves, it would not soothe the poor boy’s heart.

“Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of!” said Mrs. Longbottom angrily. “You should be proud! They didn’t give their health and sanity so their only son would be ashamed of them!”

“I’m not ashamed.” Neville murmured.

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it! My son and his wife,” she said, softer now, looking back towards the group. “They were tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who’s follower, Bellatrix Lestrange.” She growled the name, and Neville’s expression paled before it flushed angrily.

Fleur’s hand rose to cover her mouth, Ginny drew a sharp breath, and Ron even looked mortified. Hermione had not been expecting anything less, and clenched her hands over her chest.

“They were Aurors, you know, and very well respected within the Wizarding community. Highly gifted, the pair of them. I—yes, Alice, dear, what is it?” A woman had edged along the ward in her nightgown. Her face was thin and worn, her eyes seemed overlarge, and her hair, which had turned white, was wispy and dead-looking. She did not seem to want to speak, or maybe she could no longer could, but made timid motions to Neville, holding something in her outstretched hand.

“Again?” Mrs. Longbottom said, sounding slightly weary. “Very well, Alice, dear—Neville, take it, whatever it is.”

Before he was told, Neville had already reached out his hand to his mother, into which she dropped an empty Droobles Blowing Gum wrapper.

“Very nice, dear,” said Mrs. Longbottom in a falsely cheery voice, patting her on the shoulder. But Neville, very quietly, whispered, “Thanks, Mum.”

“Throw that wrapper in the bin, Neville, she must have given you enough to paper you room by now,” As she said the words, Neville’s hand dropped to his pocket, safely stowing the wrapper away.

His mother edged back down the ward, humming softly to herself. Neville looked at the others, his expression becoming defiant, as though daring them to laugh. But the sorrow that seeped from their hearts left no room for laughter. Fleur yearned with all her soul to wrap the boy in her arms and tell him how magnificent his parents were, from all the stories the other original Order members had told her. But she found her limbs were stiff, dead at her sides, and she desperately hoped that her eyes accurately portrayed the sympathy she held in her heart. Hermione was thinking similar thoughts, but when Mrs. Longbottom turned to leave, she moved forward and touched Neville’s arm gently. The lion’s expression still seemed defiant, but underneath the surface, he was exhausted and forlorn.

Without a second thought, she offered her arms, and he took her invitation gratefully. He was much taller, but in that moment no one seemed to care, and the others found the strength to move into the embrace as well. When they withdrew, there was no judgment to be found, no ill-will or malice against one another but a deep understanding, and a terrible sense of sorrow.

With a small, grateful smile, he turned back and followed his grandmother out of the ward, their footsteps dying away. The little group was silent as they took autographed photos from Lockhart, and soon excused themselves to return to Mr. Weasley. A few times, voices broke the silence as they walked, desperately trying to distract one another from their thoughts.

Hermione’s heart was ridden with fear, even as she gripped the Veela’s hand in her own. Fleur was now a part of the only force protecting the innocents, she could very easily face the same danger Neville’s poor parents had in the name of benevolence. _She’s in Azkaban,_ Hermione reminded herself firmly. _Fleur works at Gringott’s anyway. She’s smart, brave, and safe._

Finally, they arrived back at Mr. Weasley’s room. Molly looked irritated beneath the surface, but happiness overpowered any other emotion.

“Guess what!” She said excitedly, though she seemed begrudgingly grateful. “Those bloody stitches are working! The Healers say he can come home tomorrow, they just want to keep him overnight just to be sure!”


	11. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so good news. First, I won't be leaving for Basic in a while, so you'll get more chapters. Yay~ Second, sexy chapter is next! Bigger yay~~ And it's also Christmas in June as far as this fic is concerned. I don't think anything else is note-worthy, so have fun!  
> Much love,  
> RC

As promised, Mr. Weasley was home in time for Christmas. That morning, everyone had woken up to presents at the foot of their bed, and as they usually did, the younger inhabitants of Number 12 met in Ron and Harry’s room to thank one another for their gifts. Hermione received a few books from Harry and Ron, each of which were nearly crushed to death, as she’d been longing to add them to her collection. She also received a charm bracelet, handmade by Fleur’s grandmother, and set of books on defensive magic, when, combined with Harry’s set from Sirius and Lupin, was sure to tremendously assist the D.A. at their meetings. Fleur received a sweater from Mrs. Weasley, a note from her mother of a proper bookshelf, as the one she had was crumbling under its current load, a slim volume of poetry from Gabrielle, and a new pair of running shoes from her father, knowing how often their eldest ran through the vaults of Gringott’s.

Harry and Ron had received the usual hand-knitted sweaters and mince pies from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, but Harry also received a gift from Dobby; a painting that he couldn’t tell which side was up.

“You didn’t get any gifts for each other?” Ron sked skeptically.

“We did, we’re just waiting for this evening, when we go to my parent’s for Christmas dinner.”

“What about your family, Fleur?” Harry spoke up. “Do the Veela celebrate Christmas?”

“We do, actually, we celebrate nearly every holiday, at least in my family. Any excuse to have a party,” She chuckled. “We’ll be visiting them later this evening, anyway.”

A loud _crack_ announced Fred and George’s arrival in the room, and the two took to examining Harry’s painting along with them.

“Merry Christmas,” said George. “Don’t go downstairs for a bit,”

“Why not?” Asked Ron.

“Mum’s crying again,” Fred returned heavily. “Percy, stupid git, sent back his holiday jumper,”

“Without a note,” Added George. “Hasn’t asked how Dad is or visited or anything…”

“We tried to comfort her,” Fred continued, “Told her Percy’s a huge pile of rat droppings, but it didn’t work, so Lupin took over. Best let him cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I reckon.”

“What’s this supposed to be anyway?” George asked, squinting at the painting. “Looks like a gibbon with two black eyes.”

“It’s Harry!” Fred exclaimed. “Says so on the back!”

“Good likeness,” George chuckled. Harry threw the homework diary Hermione had given him, hitting the twin successfully before the journal began saying encouraging things to motivate the owner to get their work done.

After a while, Fred and George Apparated back downstairs, to check on Mrs. Weasley, and returned again, confirming that the coast was clear, but to tread carefully. Together, they ambled down the stairs, a neatly wrapped package in Hermione’s hand.

“Who’s that for?” Harry asked, eyeing it.

“Kreacher,” Hermione replied happily. “Don’t worry, it’s not clothes, even though I would love to give him something nicer than that filthy old rag. It’s a blanket I made for him; I thought it’s brighten up his bedroom.”

When they arrived in the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley had in fact stopped crying, but when she spoke, she sounded like she had a terrible head cold. Hermione knelt down by the cabinet, and knocked. There wasn’t an answer, so she slowly opened the door and sat the present inside before taking a seat at the table.

 

The day passed rather uneventfully, full of light-hearted conversation on all parts, delighting in Mr. Weasley’s return from the hospital when Lupin brought him in around one o’clock. Pudding was handed out in celebration, and he thanked Harry for what he considered saving his life. The young wizard seemed unsettled, but accepted it quietly. They all sat together, talking and laughing, and trying their very hardest to keep unpleasant thoughts from interfering with the holiday spirit, much like they had the previous summer.

Ron and Harry were in the middle of a chess game when Mrs. Weasley called him into the kitchen, saying Professor Snape wanted a word with him. Ron and Hermione exchanged a look as he left the room, but Fleur answered before they could ask.

“He’s to take Occlumency lessons with Snape.”

Hermione looked equal parts impressed and terrified. “But why would he need that? We’ve established that Voldemort’s not possessing him,”

“First, what exactly is the Occu—thing?” Ron interjected.

“Occlumency is a very old, very complex sect of magic.” Hermione answered. “It involves guarding your mind from those trying to enter it,”

“And those, who enter, if they succeed, have nearly unlimited access to memories, skills, thoughts, anything that occurs in one’s mind.” Fleur added. “We think that Voldemort will become aware of the connection between himself and Harry soon, if he hasn’t already, and use it against him somehow. One’s mind needs to be protected at all times.”

Mr. Weasley walked into the room proudly, the stitches had in fact assisted the wound’s progress to healing, and the lead Healer on his case had found the antidote to the snake venom, completely curing him of any illness or disability. He walked into the kitchen, and from the door, where it stood open, Sirius and Snape could been seen toe-to-toe with one another, their wands drawn and aimed dangerously. Snape was the first to pull away and pocket his wand, leaving the house without farewell, only “Six o’clock Monday evening, Potter,” thrown over his shoulder.

 

It was later in the evening when Fleur and Hermione readied themselves for departure. They congratulated Mr. Weasley on his return to health, thanked Mrs. Weasley for the sweaters and mince pies, and Sirius for allowing them to stay. The grizzled wizard was most happy to invite them back again, although he still seemed chuffed from Snape’s earlier visit. They wished the others good bye, promising to return as soon as possible.

With a loud _crack_ , they found themselves once more in the Granger household, Christmas dinner laid out on the table for them. Jean and Thomas entered the room shortly after they arrived, exchanged hugs, and settled in for the meal. The Grangers had already had lunch with the extended family members, having explained to them Hermione’s absence, but they were happy to see her and Fleur, and dug right back in to the feast.

When the table had been cleared, Fleur helped Jean store the extra food, Hermione showed her how the dishwasher worked. When everything was finished, they gathered in the parlor to open presents, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth.

Thomas was very surprised to receive a collection of dragon teeth; Fleur had to explain how the babies had been losing teeth like mad, since dragons go through three sets before the permanent ones come in.

“I know it’s a rather odd gift, but I thought you might get a good laugh out of it,” Fleur chuckled, happy to see his mirth. She also gave him a new Polaroid camera, apologizing that she would have given a magical camera, but the laws wouldn’t have allowed her to do so. Thomas waved the apology away and took to snapping pictures as they continued opening gifts. 

For Jean, she painted a portrait of the family dog who’d passed away a few years ago, having borrowed the picture from an album when Hermione had shown it to her over the summer. Beau had been a rescue, and a much loved pet. When he died, a piece of the family had left with him, and upon seeing the portrait, Jean clutched the Veela tightly, tears welling in her eyes.

“This is really, really good,” Jean murmured, staring at the painting. “You can’t imagine how much this means to me,” Hermione looked as though she were about to cry as well. Growing up, she’d told Fleur, Beau had been the closest thing she’d had to a friend, and when the Veela presented the idea, she was overjoyed at the prospect.

“Hermione told me about him,” Fleur murmured, softly. “I thought it would be more sentimental, anyway. I’m glad you like it,” She flushed, unused to giving art as presents.

“Well, let’s get your gifts out, then shall we?” Jean asked, sniffling and wiping her eyes hurriedly, keen to change the subject.

Hermione received more books, as they had been her most-requested gift for all her life. Unlike the others she received from Harry and Ron, these were what she called ‘pleasure books,’ novels rather than informative texts, things to read while curled up beside the fire or by the lake on a nice day. Among them, there was _The Lord of the Flies,_ and _To Kill a Mockingbird,_ both of which were higher-level texts commonly used in school curriculums, but she’d never had a chance to read them since she attended Hogwarts instead.

Fleur, to her surprise, opened a box of earrings, dangling silver loops with a silver necklace, strangely one that didn’t boast a pendant. She was delighted to receive them, trying them on as soon as she figured out just how they were secured in the box with strange twisting ties and plastics.

Finally, Fleur turned to Hermione, and offered her a rather large and heavy box. Quizzically, Hermione slowly peeled the paper away, finding a box bearing the logo or Borgin and Burkes. She looked horrified, her eyes wide and her mouth desperately trying to decide which curse words she wanted to use.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Fleur said quickly, holding up her hands. “Just take a look, I would hope you trust me,” she chuckled.

Wearily, she looked back down at the box, and opened it, half-afraid of what waited beneath the paper coverings. A harmless, glass alchemy set gleamed up at her, far from dangerous and very handsome.

“I know it’s an alchemy set, but they can be used for potion-brewing, too. Plus, there’s a place to store ingredients, measuring supplies, and a handbook on alchemy, if you decide you want to give it a try.” Fleur explained, smiling widely. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Hermione threw her arms around Fleur before she answered. “I don’t know what I was thinking, honestly!” she laughed. “Thank you so much, Fleur.”

The Veela didn’t release her, whispering into her ear. “I figured it would help with all the potion-brewing you’ve been doing, especially with that brilliant silencing tonic,” she chuckled. Hermione withdrew, and slapped her arm playfully.

“Here, open yours, now,” She insisted, pushing a small, heavy package into the Veela’s lap. She cocked her head to the side, and carefully unwrapped the parcel. It was a set of pure graphite and charcoal pencils, the sector of art Fleur never got a chance to try out. With a loud laugh, she took Hermione in her arms again, squeezing her gently.

“This is perfect, Hermione! I think I’ll draw Shamin the next chance I get!” she squeezed the Gryffindor again. “Thank you, so, so much!”

Hermione smiled lovingly, but pulled another box from in between the sofa cushions. “You actually have one more,”

Fleur cocked an eyebrow, and took the small box. A silver feather rested inside, the missing pendant to her necklace chain. Instantly, her eye caught the glimmer of gold round Hermione’s neck, the charm resting prettily against her chest. Hermione knew where her eyes had traveled, and lifted the silver chain, looping the feather through it before clasping it behind the Veela’s neck.

Fleur stroked the feather gently, looking back and forth between Hermione and her parents. “You didn’t need to go to all this trouble,” she murmured at last.

“Nonsense!” Thomas laughed from his armchair. “Look at all the trouble you went to, love.” The endearment caught her off guard, and she flushed darkly, feeling incredibly loved and accepted as part of Hermione’s family. She traded a glance with the lioness, and knew her thoughts were along the same lines. Their approval seemed nearly effortless. Hermione had been honest and straightforward with them, asking them not to understand, but to trust her, and to accept Fleur as a part of Hermione’s life, unmoving and irrevocable.

Fleur rose from her seat, opening her arms. As they exchanged hugs, and even initiated a group hug, she realized that she hadn’t replied to Thomas’s last statement.

“It really wasn’t any trouble,” she murmured. “I was happy to, really.”

Jean chuckled softly. “And we were happy to, as well. Merry Christmas,” she said, pressing kisses to every cheek she could reach. When they pulled away, Thomas went into the kitchen to make his famous hot cocoa for everyone, before Fleur and Hermione left for Fleur’s parent’s house. While Thomas was busy in the kitchen, Jean left to fetch skewers and marshmallows, apparently a Muggle favorite for any occasion.

Fleur turned to Hermione, where they sat near the fire, and wrapped the other in her arms tightly. Gingerly, she pressed a kiss to her lips, sighing in contentment as Hermione stroked her cheek. It was a soft kiss, a simple kiss, and when they pulled away, the firelight danced in Hermione’s eyes, lighting the dark hazel beautifully.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful,” Fleur murmured. Even in the red of the fire, she caught the Gryffindor’s blush as she turned her face away. “You do know you’re beautiful, don’t you?”

She shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. “I never look at me, so I can’t accurately say. I do enjoy hearing it, though,” she chuckled.

“Then I’ll be sure to say it more often, then,” Fleur promised, tucking a stray bit of hair behind her ear.

Jean returned then, and doled out the skewers and marshmallows. “I expect you both to brush your teeth for an extra minute before bed, after this,” she laughed.

“Of course, Mum,” Hermione returned with a smile, moving over so her mother had room to sit on the rug before the fire. Thomas returned a few minutes later, just as Fleur was finally mastering the art of toasting, rather than burning, mugs of steaming cocoa ready for each of them.

“You told them to bush—”

 “Yes, of course, dear,” Jean chuckled, taking the offered mug.

“I thought I heard something about it, just thought I’d double-check,” he said, giving the other two mugs as well before falling back into his armchair.

 

Half a bag of marshmallows later, and a very full belly, Fleur and Hermione bid farewell to the Grangers, thanking them for dinner, their gifts, and the introduction to Thomas’s addictive cocoa.

When they arrived at the Delacour estate, Gabrielle flung herself at Fleur, whose body was terribly unused to sugar and unusually full of it she was nearly sick at the impact; the younger Delacour apologized profusely.

“It’s alright, Gabrielle,” Fleur murmured, gently pulling her sister back into a gentler embrace. “Happy Christmas. Where is Mama?”

Before Gabrielle could respond, Apolline entered the room, dressed in a silk robe with ginger men pajama bottoms.

“Merry Christmas, Hermione!” She said, smiling, taking the girl into her arms. “It is so very good to see you.” She traded a similar greeting with Fleur, telling her that most of the cousins and other family had already went to bed, or otherwise returned home.

“That’s fine with me, Mama, I feel like tomorrow will be a better day for festivities, anyway,” Fleur sighed. “Everyone is coming back, yes?”

“Same as every year, Fleur, you know that,” The Delacour matriarch chuckled. “Go tell your father merry Christmas before you head up to bed, he has something he wants to give Hermione.”

The lioness followed Fleur into the study where André undoubtedly waited. Sure enough, he sat behind a large oak desk, arranging some papers neatly across the surface. When the two entered, he looked up excitedly, hugging his daughter and Hermione.

“Merry Christmas!” He said happily. “I know you two must be exhausted, so I’m going to keep this rather short. Fleur, if you would, dear, go on and get ready for bed. I’d like to have a moment with Hermione, if you don’t mind,” Fleur nodded and kissed her father’s cheek, wishing him good night. Hermione’s eyes followed her as she left before turning back to André.

“I only wanted to speak to you alone because only you would really understand,” he began with a chuckle. “As I’m sure you noticed, the Veela have a lot invested in the stars, and of course, that’s why they’re more attuned to astrology and astronomy than any other science. Now, for us, at least it seems, we can’t see what they can when it comes to stars and constellations. However, with a bit of guided practice, we can get a general idea.” He stood up and approached a bookshelf. Even though the lioness received several books every holiday, the mystery and anticipation of immersing herself in a new one never lost its potency.

“For years, I wanted to understand why Apolline was so fascinated by the stars. Of course, I enjoy stars, and nebulae, and the cosmos in general, but I never seemed to see what she says is written up there. To us, and to Muggles, the stars are not maps of individual lives, but landmarks in the cosmos itself, but to the Veela, they’re… a method of recording progress and protective measures. It’s taken years of very long conversations with Asteria, and even longer to write this, but I really do believe you could benefit from it.” His gaze finally fell on the object he was searching for, and slowly, he pulled a battered old, leather-bound journal from the shelf.

“You see, the Veela can see that the stars are more than landmarks, but interactions between different lives. They can tell which ball of light is a star, a planet, another galaxy even, by instinct, and by the positioning or moving of them, they can guess, with a fair amount of certainty, what could happen next, given the knowledge of each person’s stars.”

Gingerly, he handed the journal to Hermione. “I… I can’t take this…” she managed at last.

“Of course you can,” he chuckled. “I’ve studied it for years, and now I know as much as a wizard can about Veela stars. I really want you to have it. Fleur would enjoy teaching you, but perhaps another wizard’s perspective of the subject could help, hm?” He patted her shoulder gently.

“Thank you,” Hermione whispered hoarsely. “I really can’t tell you how much I appreciate this…”

He chuckled again, drawing her in for another hug. “It’s my pleasure, dear. Go on up to bed, now, I’m sure Fleur’s dying to know what we’ve spoken of.”

 

Hermione returned to the same bedroom she had shared with Fleur over the summer, the room looking almost the same as it did then. Fleur was already in bed, her hair up in a ponytail and the slim book of poetry Gabrielle had given her for Christmas propped on her lap. When the lioness entered, Fleur looked up at her with a smile.

“What did Papa want?” She asked softly, closing her book.

“He gave me his journal. He told me about how he always wanted to understand the Veela stars and see what your mother sees,” she said simply, digging through her bag in search for her toothbrush.

Fleur smiled. “Yes, he was always convinced he could see what we do with enough study. He can’t see everything, but he sees more than any other mate Grand-mère knows of. Perhaps I can show you some of our stars?”

“Let me study his journal a bit and then we can start that,” Hermione chuckled, leaving the room again to brush her teeth. When she returned, the lights were turned off, the curtains were opened to let in the starlight, and the blankets were pulled back from the corner, welcoming Hermione. She crawled in beside Fleur where she lay on her side, facing the large window, snuggling against her back and wrapping her arms about the blonde. The Veela sighed into her touch, rolling over so she was allowed free reign to kiss the lioness. Hermione chuckled as eyelashes tickled her neck as kisses were planted there, the Veela’s lips parting against her skin so her teeth could tease the sensitive flesh there.

Fleur knew very well how much this flustered her lioness, so begrudgingly, she pulled away and nuzzled closed against her chest where a heartbeat thundered. A low sigh filled her breast, her thoughts returning to those she’d had before the Quidditch match. Would it always be the right time but the wrong place? She tried to quell the stream of thoughts, but her efforts were as futile as they were when she tried to calm her heart.

“Merry Christmas, love,” Fleur murmured against Hermione’s breast.

The Gryffindor kissed her lips gently, sighing in contentment. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered. “I love you,”

Fleur kissed her collar bone where it peeked out from her tank top. “I love you too. The day will come soon, Hermione. This isn’t the place, and I’m sorry it’s taking so long,” She murmured.

The lioness shifted around Fleur’s body slightly, her hands cupping the Veela’s shoulders, her fingertips lazily tracing patterns there. “I know, Fleur. I’m not impatient, I’m just wish we wouldn’t find ourselves in the ‘right time, wrong place’ situations,” she chuckled.

Fleur stroked her back gently, nodding. “I know, dearest. But it’ll be okay; we’re on the same page, and soon you’ll be back at school, I’ll be back at Hogsmeade, and there, we won’t have to worry when the time is right.”

Hermione smiled. “That’s true. No sense in worrying, hm?”

“The most natural thing in the world,” Fleur returned wistfully.

 

The next morning, Fleur and Hermione woke to snow piled on the windowsill, and a large, rowdy breakfast in the dining room. As tradition ran, the breakfast, mostly comprised of leftovers from Christmas dinner, the guests and hosts ate in their pajamas, happily chatting around the table. There were several Veela there, including Aella, whom Hermione had met during the Veela’s Summer Solstice celebration, and a plenty of new faces. There were a few of André’s relatives present, who all took great interest in the newest face at the table.

They chatted happily together, asking Hermione about Hogwarts and classes and various other things. Music played, and they played a few games, Hermione even taught them how to play Rummy, falling back on her winning streak after the Veelas caught on, which only took a few hands. It was the kind of Christmas she’d never really had as a child. Her cousins were older than she, and had no genuine desire to play with her, and when they had children of their own, she was far too old to play with them. But in this family, there was a variety of ages, groups branching off to discuss, debate, play, or learn with one another. Several of Fleur’s Veela cousins were slightly younger than she, with the exception of Aella, who was two years Fleur’s senior, and Aella’s mate, Rachel, a tawny-haired witch of twenty.

Despite the age difference, Rachel and Hermione got along wonderfully, playfully teasing their Veelas on different mannerisms or habits they had, such as Fleur’s snoring when she’d had a particularly rough day, or Aella’s easy excitement involving anything new or dangerous. Rachel had met Aella while studying abroad from America in University, and the two instantly fell head over heels for one another. It didn’t take long, and their partnership entered the second stage, although they understood the predicament posed with Fleur and Hermione’s.

“Are there a lot of lesbian relationships among the Veela?” Hermione asked softly, looking between Aella and Rachel.

“Almost all of them, actually,” Aella answered, leaning forward with interest. “For several generations, the Veela only mated with other females, which strengthened the X chromosome, making it far more dominant than the Y. Since there were only female couples mating for so long, only the X was present, and apparently a resistance to the Y was consequently built, rendering it inevitable to fail; that’s why all the blood-born Veela are females. I’ve done some research, whenever I can get my hands on a microscope, and it almost seems like the egg cell of a Veela lures in sperm cells with the X, and repels those bearing the Y. I’d like to do more research, but there are so many laws in the tribe that restricts that sort of study…” she sighed heavily, then eyed the cards skeptically. “Rummy!” she lifted the three of hearts and played it off Fleur’s two. “Anyways, I can’t tell exactly why there’s such an abundance of female/female partnerships with us. So far, science isn’t telling me much.”

“Aella goes to University for microbiology,” Fleur explained softly. “She gets to play with petri dishes and microscopes and bacteria and the like.”

“Indeed, I do!” The other Veela said proudly, her stomach rumbled loudly from under the table as she did. “And apparently my bacteria need sustenance.”

They paused in their card game for lunch, and picked right back up after it had finished. A few nieces and nephews of André’s looked interested in joining the loud bunch of Veelas, so they switched to a game Rachel knew, which was much easier to play with so many people. More still became interested, and soon nearly the whole of the gather family were playing Blackjack at the dining room table, until someone from André’s side suggested poker. Casino chips were brought out, players cashed in, and spectators crowded to watch as chips traveled back and forth between players, loud cheering and cursing echoing through the house even though they weren’t playing for money. It was around four o’clock when Fleur broke away to shower and change, advising Hermione to do the same.

When the Gryffindor arrived downstairs half an hour later, the laughter had died away in the dining room, family members still milled about, but most of the louder-mouthed members seemed to have departed.

“Aella and Rachel had to go,” Fleur said with an apologetic smile. “They asked me to tell you Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and that they hope to see you again soon.”

Hermione nodded, confused as Fleur seemed anxious and jittery near the door. “I hope I do too, Fleur, are we going somewhere?

“I thought we should go back to Number 12, celebrate with them a bit more, you know.” Hermione nodded, and they spend the next few days travelling between the assorted Black and Granger households.

It was the morning of the second of January, a Saturday, when Fleur began acting strangely, prancing around Number 12 with her spirits soaring, combatting Sirius’s quickly returning gloomy mood. The prospect of losing such welcome guests and friends to Hogwarts or places of employment reminded him that he would, once again, be trapped in his family’s house with only a house-elf for company. But even that couldn’t shut out the light streaming from Fleur. It infected everyone in the house, even Harry who, for the first time in his life, was not looking forward to returning to school.

Hermione came downstairs after a shower around noon, dressed in dark jeans, a nice green sweater her aunt had given her, and tall leather boots, and paused to study the Veela where she stood, apparently waiting for her.

“What’s going on?” She asked softy, taking the last steps down.

The Veela smiled mischievously. “I have another surprise for you, love.”

“You’d better get going, too,” Ms. Weasley spoke up from the stove, where she was putting the kettle on. “That’s a nice sweater, Hermione,” She added kindly. “Though it is a little strange to see you in green rather than red and gold.”

The lioness chuckled and agreed before she turned her attention back to Fleur. “Well, shall we get going then?”

They hastily exchanged hugs with everyone in the parlor, promising to see them the next day, if not that evening. Back in the entryway, Hermione held Fleur’s hand, her stomach clenching in anticipation as they Apparated away. 

 

When the spinning stopped, Hermione found herself in a shabby old building that was rather musty, but not nearly as bad as Number 12 had been. She looked at the Veela quizzically, but she gave no hints. Smiling, she pulled Hermione down a flight of stairs and out a door, where they quickly mingled in with Muggles as they bustled about. They were obviously in London, but the lioness had no idea precisely where they were.

“Fleur, just where are we going?” She said, struggling to keep up.

Fleur smiled. “I told you it was a surprise. Think of this as a belated birthday present.”

Hermione racked her brains, and skidded to a halt. “No, you didn’t…”

“Come on, Hermione, we’ll be late!” Fleur pleaded, dragging her by the hand.

“I swear to God, Fleur, if you—” and that’s when she saw the theater.

“Welcome to West End, Hermione,” Fleur said, still pulling at the Gryffindor’s hand.

 “You shouldn’t have done this!” Hermione gasped.

“I wanted to, really. But this isn’t Christmas, this is making up for your birthday since we didn’t get to go out and do anything.”

With several more protests, Fleur eventually fell silent, flashed the tickets, and entered the theater. She managed to get a nice seat in an upper level, not the highest, but one that provided a very decent view. When they settled in, she looped an arm around the lioness, kissing her cheek.

“What are we seeing?” Hermione asked, who hadn’t been allowed to peek.

“You’ll see, love.” Fleur whispered as the lights went out and voices hushed. Music began to play, the first few lines offered little insight about the sale of an opera-house, but when the character of Christine Daaé was introduced her suspicions were confirmed and she nearly shouted, using all her willpower to keep her surprise silent.

“We’re watching _The Phantom of the Opera?!_ How on Earth did you manage? _”_ she whispered, hardly believing that she was in the West End Theater, let alone about to see the live performance of one of her favorite novels. Hermione brought her mouth very close to Fleur’s ear, “I love you so very much,”

Fleur returned the sentiment, and together, they watched the performance in unbroken silence, reduced to tears and loud, raucous applause when the curtain fell. When they left the theater it was late in the evening; Hermione was laughing loudly, her eyes still watery, but she constantly proclaimed her love for Fleur and thanked her over and over again, saying this not only counted as a birthday present, but as their anniversary outing, too.

“I can accept that,” Fleur chuckled, twirling Hermione around.

“Where are we going now?” The lioness asked, seeing that they were nearing the same run-down house they’d Apparated into.

“Well, dinner for sure, I’m starving. Have you any preferences?”

Hermione flushed for a moment before answering, “Let’s go back to Hogsmeade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a last thing, I know the Phantom of the Opera isn't really a Christmas-y thing at all, but whatever. Fiction.


	12. Sexy Time Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the sexy I promised! I will not delay, you've all been very patient for it so go on and have fun! I'd recommend that you wait until you're alone to read, but I doubt many will heed the warning, however I feel obligated to warn you anyway. More sexy times will come after this, you have my word!  
> Much love,  
> RC

As it turned out, Fleur fully anticipated Hermione’s suggestion of returning to Hogsmeade, and had taken the liberty to deliver their things as well as some leftovers to the cottage as Hermione showered earlier. The dishes were washed and put away after they’d had something to eat, and for the moment, they sat together on Fleur’s sofa, watching the fire burn.

“So how did you like my family?” Fleur asked quietly, pulling Hermione against her chest.  

“They’re wonderful, Fleur. I’ve never lost a game of Rummy until Aella caught on. And the rest of them, they were so laid back, chatting about politics in their Christmas pajamas,” she laughed. “I didn’t think they would be as relaxed as they were.”

“Most people don’t,” Fleur agreed.

“I really appreciate what you did for Mum. That portrait of Beau was stunning…” She trailed off, dedicating a moment of silence to her first real friend.

“It was the least I could do, and I’m glad you all liked it,” Fleur murmured quietly, a light blush on her cheeks.

“And taking me to West End, Fleur, I nearly died when I saw it!” She continued, turning to happier, brighter thoughts.

“I know, love,” Fleur laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite so pale.”

“Can we make a deal?”

The Veela cocked an eyebrow. “That depends on what you have in mind,”

Hermione rolled her eyes before continuing. “Can we always exchange gifts like that? Either experiences to share with one another, or something useful or meaningful?”

Fleur looked puzzled. “That’s what my family’s always done. Do Muggles do it differently?”

Hermione sighed. “Not really, it’s just that a lot of times, especially in the past, I received gifts that didn’t really have a tangible purpose, and I hate having things gone to waste. That’s part of the reason why I began asking for books every year; I never waste a book.”

Fleur nodded her understanding. “Sure, I can agree to that.” She said, leaning forward and pressed a kiss to Hermione’s cheek. “Well, let’s get on to bed, shall we? It’s been a long day, dragging you through London,” she chuckled.

They took turns in the bathroom, performing the usual nightly rituals separately, as each preferred to take care of such matters privately. After Hermione had washed her face and brushed her teeth, she looked at her reflection in the mirror, and had a rather sudden, terrifying thought. She and Fleur would be alone tonight. In Fleur’s house. In Fleur’s bed.

She shook her head in an attempt to clear it. Just because it was an opportune moment did not mean it was the right one. But did she want it to be? A quick glance at her dilated pupils suggested so. But that could be fear, too. She took another glance. A blush had risen to her cheeks, and was slowly traveling down her chest. It was hot in the bathroom, wasn’t it? As she shifted on her feet, the cold tile reported that no, it was very far from hot in the little room. Was it the water? Yes, it must have been the water, she’d used hot water to wash her face. With a last feeble effort, she turned on the cold tap and splashed her face again. The blush had darkened, and so had her eyes.

She dried her face and quickly exited, finding that Fleur had not yet returned to the bedroom. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she peeled the duvet back and settled in, the cold bedclothes making her shiver as they touched her overheated skin. She curled into a ball, desperately trying to calm herself.

The door opened, and Fleur crawled into bed, her hot skin did nothing to slow Hermione’s racing thoughts. But Fleur always radiated with heat, surely this was no different…

“Cold, love?” She asked softly, curling around the other witch. Hermione nodded, unwilling to trust her voice. “Come here, then,” Fleur chuckled, drawing her closer. It only took a few moments before Hermione’s back was so warm, she felt the need to turn over. When she did, it was hesitant, but finally, she decided to test the waters herself.

She pressed a long kiss to Fleur’s mouth, gently nudging her lips apart with her tongue. Fleur responded readily, gently fighting against the Gryffindor’s tongue, wrestling it back into Hermione’s mouth. Her breathing hitched, and Fleur changed her course and slowing her tempo, kissing her with beautiful tenderness, pouring emotion into each and every brush of her lips against the pale skin. She changed direction again, coming back up to begin kissing along her clavicle and what little was exposed of her chest. Hermione gasped quietly, amazed by the sweet, gentle touches and kisses the Veela bestowed upon her flesh. She lay back on the bed, chilled silken bedclothes warmed beneath her, only adding to the sensation.

Hermione’s breathing became heavy, her body shaking uncontrollably.

Fleur’s lips moved to her ear, her voice low, patient and understanding, so close to Hermione she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. “We don’t have to do anything tonight, amour. I don’t want you to feel obligated,”

Hermione shook her head, licking her lips. “I want to, I really do. I’ve just… this is new to me.”

Fleur’s gentle chuckle shook her form. “This isn’t new, dearest. We’re just kissing, that’s all. There’s no expectation. See?” Her lips met the Gryffindor’s with a gentle brush, her palm cupping her cheek in the warm, loving way she’d mastered. Hermione melted under her touch. This wasn’t new at all, she reasoned silently; she’d come to know this embrace of arms and lips very well, for their warmth was not strange but very fond. Her body stopped shaking after a few minutes of Fleur gently coaxing her to relax again, her mouth trailing hot kisses from her lips, to her neck and back again.

“You see?” She murmured softly. “Nothing different. If you want, this is all we’ll do,” The Veela continued her gentle kisses, allowing Hermione the silence to think. The sensation was far from new and the polar opposite of unpleasant, but a throbbing beat deep with her body, a throbbing she’d met before, but never experienced so keenly. It yearned for the blonde in a way that couldn’t be described by word and could only be relieved by act.

“No, Fleur,” She said softly, turning her face against the other, the pads of her fingertips stroking the soft flesh of the blonde’s cheek. “I want you, and I want to be slow. Are you sure you’re ready?”

The Veela took a moment to think the question over. A string was pulled taunt within her body, like a bow, the Veela inside her yearning to take control and give her mate what she wished. But Fleur was stronger, at least for the moment, and allowed the part of her detached from the Veela make the decision.

Against a gentle kiss, she whispered, “Yes,” 

The reality of it all struck them at that moment. Frozen in space and time, they were about to share something that could never be taken away, something intimate and beautiful, a sacred ritual as old as time and evolution.

Neither pressed the question, simply allowed the moment to ripen, to see if either would have a change of heart or conscious. Instead of speaking, they busied themselves by studying various perfections the other bore. The beautiful dusting of freckles across the brunette’s skin. The gentle curve of her cheek, the smile that could chase thunder away and beckon the sun to return again. The small dimple that revealed itself only during a genuine smile. The multiple facets in the deep, enchanting blue of Fleur’s eyes. The exquisitely pale skin, somehow still pale even in summer when she spent nearly every waking hour either perched on horse- or dragon-back.

The sight of Hermione took Fleur’s breath away, the gentle blush on her cheeks, the gorgeous glow of her eyes, the intelligence that resided within them. Those full, luscious lips, the Veela felt as though she could kiss them all day if she had the chance. How she wished for a day to spend kissing Hermione… her lips, her neck, even her feet if they were all she was allowed to kiss. She wouldn’t care, so long as her lips never had to leave her gorgeous, soft, beautifully freckled skin.

Hermione felt worshipped by Fleur’s gaze alone. She felt as though entire universes rested in her eyes, and Fleur was intent on studying each and every one, committing their beauty and perfection to memory. But the Gryffindor conducted her own study, too. The suns of far-away worlds could not compare with the light bursting in Fleur’s eyes. Such joy sang in their depths, the choirs of heaven could not compete with such splendor. With a smile, Hermione closed her eyes, and met Fleur’s lips, nodding silently against her, reaffirming her certainty.  

    “If you wish to stop, I will stop. Just tell me, Hermione.” She whispered, rubbing her nose over the other’s. The lioness nodded, taking a deep breath, murmuring for her to do the same. Fleur stood, and lit a single candle to fight the inky darkness of the bedroom. Standing with her back to Hermione, she drew a deep breath in attempt to quell her nerves, pulling off her shirt and stepping out of her pajama bottoms, opting to remain only in her knickers.

    When she turned around, she found Hermione’s eyes closed and her face turned away, the blush on her cheeks vibrant in the candlelight. The Veela chuckled softly, shaking her head. She choked her nerves down again before she spoke. _This is the most natural thing in the world._

    “You can look, Hermione.” The hazel eyes slowly opened, only to remain downcast. “Honestly, amour. I am yours to look at, yours to touch, yours to love.” Hermione opened her eyes once more, briefly searching for Fleur’s eyes before locking on them. “More than just my face, darling.” Fleur promised, gently urging her on. Finally granting herself permission, Hermione looked over Fleur’s body, her eyes going wide and her jaw slack.

    Every toned muscle glowed in the candlelight; her skin was golden in it. Every curve was perfect, every bone proportioned to accent her body in a most alluring way. Fleur’s breasts were not large by any means, accommodating her toned frame appropriately, crowned with light pink nipples. Her lower half was just as enticing, a mere scrap of black lace wrapped around her hips, hiding the only mystery Fleur had left. The teasing fabric contrasted with the color of her body so, it was complimented, emphasizing the curve of her waist and how the positioning of her hips seemed to draw the eye to her concealed sex. Incredible, she was, without argument. Hermione raised her hand, beckoning her to come, her eyes wide, drinking her into unforgettable memory. The Veela obeyed readily, crawling into bed beside her. The brunette’s hands continued to reach out, gently stroking the warm, silken flesh carefully, as if she were a fragile being.

    Fleur sighed into Hermione’s touch, her muscles contracting and relaxing periodically as deft fingers explored uncharted, ticklish territory. Hermione allowed herself to map the hills and valleys of Fleur’s body, being ever mindful of her breasts and line of lingerie. She kept her eyes closed, feeling Fleur’s beauty rather than openly staring at it. She could see clearly with her fingertips, memorizing the glorious feel of soft skin and taunt muscles, then the even softer feel of her breasts as she skimmed over them. Hermione never allowed herself to travel very far into this region, but Fleur’s frequent sighs and soft moans of pleasure begged her to go further.

    Hermione opened her eyes, seeing the Veela completely relaxed beside her, lips parted slightly, beautifully. She halted her movements, blue eyes met hers, a comforting smile placed on beautiful lips. She rose slightly, slipping an arm under the blonde’s neck, pulling Fleur into her side. Hermione’s right hand was left free to continue its expedition of the nearly naked beauty, but rather than ravish her, Hermione was slow. She drew her fingers up the side of Fleur’s neck, under her chin, watching her facial expressions the whole time. Her fingertips traced over her cheeks, her lips, Fleur eagerly followed and kissed her fingers before they were beyond her reach. The blonde’s warmth seeped through Hermione’s clothes, her skin itched irritably as she longed to feel Fleur’s beautiful, soft flesh against her own naked body, but she had yet to conjure the courage to bare herself.

    The Veela purred, almost audibly, as she sunned in the affection freely and genuinely given to her. She turned her head, exposing her neck to Hermione’s fingers as they traveled down the sensitive flesh. She startled herself as sharp gasp lifted her chest, Hermione’s hand brushing a particularly sensitive spot.

    Hermione threw herself over Fleur as animalistic instincts reared within her, driven by the primal sound. A passionate, blissful kiss was given, received, and given again. Fleur’s hands gripped Hermione’s shoulders, clawing at the fabric separating them. The brunette forced herself to pull away, apologies spilling from her lips.

    Fleur halted her rush of worries, pressing a gentler kiss to her lips. “No, Hermione. Do not apologize, however, we will be slow, and you will be first.” The blonde whispered, pushing the other beneath her gently. A deeper blush took its place on the brunette’s face, but this time, she was unable to avert her eyes. Fleur hovered above her, long blonde hair tickling her nose, heat rolling off her flushed, golden skin. Her chest heaved slightly, her hair somewhat disheveled, her deep blue eyes filled with need. She leaned back, drawing Hermione up with her.

    She had to remember to be slow, taking several deep breaths, reining the Veela in as her senses reported the presence of feminine musk and arousal, practically rolling from the brunette. Carefully, she pulled the shirt off Hermione’s body, snaking her arm around to unclasp her bra. Her fingers traced over soft, warm skin, velvet to the touch. She pressed Hermione back down, her hands gently stroking exquisitely pale breasts, covered in gooseflesh as she slid the straps off her arms, forcing her eyes to keep from feasting just yet. Fleur compelled her hands to continue their travel, and with the first task completed, she moved lower, hooking her fingertips beneath her waistband, giving the panting woman ample time to protest. If anything, Hermione encouraged her, as the musky scent became headier as she continued her slow assault, the inner Veela snarling at her restraints. She slid the last piece of outer clothing over defined hips, off shapely legs, into the floor with everything else.

    Fleur looked at Hermione, now as naked as she herself. Auburn hair was splayed over the pillow, cascading over her chest beautifully. Gooseflesh covered her body, tremors shaking her frequently, from the rush of excitement or chill, Fleur did not know. She knew nothing, other than the fact she was completely mesmerized by Hermione. The curves and contours of her stomach and chest were perfect by Fleur’s standards, and if someone were to point out a flaw, she was sure she still wouldn’t see. She leaned forward, gently pressing her lips to Hermione’s ribs before pulling back again.

    “You are beautiful, Hermione…” She whispered, accent thick with emotion. Another shiver took Hermione when the Frenchwoman said her name. She opened her eyes, ready to protest, but the genuine, astounded look in the Veela’s eyes made her remain silent.

    Fleur straddled Hermione’s hips, giving the brunette an impressive view and a wave of heat, but the Veela was the one who studied closely now, with her eyes as much as her hands, allowing her fingertips to stoke the tender flesh of the brunette’s stomach, the gentle curve above her waist, over her ribs and clavicle. She saw how Hermione’s breathing hitched as the palm of her hand skimmed over the full underside of her breast, a sweep of red coloring the brunette’s features from her cheeks, down her chest. Hermione’s breasts were also splotched from the blush, slightly bigger than Fleur’s and more sensitive to the cool air as their rose-colored crowns became taut.

    Hermione saw the fascination and excitement flash in the deep blue orbs hovering over her. Her first reaction to being observed so unabashed in her current state had been embarrassment, but as the Veela’s eyes continued to sweep over her, drinking her into committed memory, the shame faded, replaced by pride. Hermione didn’t feel as though Fleur were gawking at her, instead appreciating a sight no one else had ever witnessed, worshipping her body with approving appraisal. Hunger did not burden her gaze, but wonder, completely spellbound by what she saw. Hermione drew her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and locked eyes with the blonde goddess over her, mirroring the same want and need that she saw earlier in Fleur’s blue depths. The Veela pressed their lips together, rocking her body forward so now her hands and knees supported her rather than her haunches; their breasts pressed together, making Hermione’s next intake of breath sharpen as she arched her back, feeling her lover’s skin press against her bare body for the first time. It was a feeling so sublime she wished her memory could hold every fleeting thought with precision.

    The two women moved together, their bodies pressed together at every line and contour, their lips searching, finding, and ravishing the other till both were swollen and breathless. Hermione, growing ever bolder, raked her nails over the bronzed skin of Fleur’s shoulders, drawing a whimper from the blonde as she began to kiss Hermione’s neck, covering the sensitive area with gentle bites. She allowed her hands to travel the length of Fleur’s back, finding that the interruption made by the lingerie offended her. Insistently, she forced them down the blonde’s legs, and with some assistance, discarded them on the floor. Again, her hands traveled down Fleur’s back, this time without pause as her hands came to rest upon the blonde’s tempting arse. The movement, the shamelessness of it, startled the Veela slightly, simply due to the surprise of the touch, but soon discovered she rather enjoyed the feel, arching back into Hermione’s hands.

    An internal fight raged within the Veela. Need and desire fought against logic and conscious. She forced herself to restrain Hermione’s hands, panting above her; her eyes heavily lidded but stared into hazel deliberately.

“I promised you a slow, special night.” The Veela breathed. “I will give that to you. Please allow me that. Every night hereafter, you can set my blood on fire, but tonight, let me worship you.” Hermione nodded once, panting under her. Pulling her hands free, she gingerly stroked the blonde’s collarbone and chest, reveling as a shiver rolled though Fleur’s body. A strained, but gentle kiss was pressed to Hermione’s swollen lips before she withdrew her body with evident difficultly.

    Fleur reached to the bedside table, drawing a half-bloomed rose from a vase. “Close your eyes, Hermione.” She obeyed, self-consciously covering herself with her arms. “Relax, my sweet.” Fleur’s gentle hands lifted her arms away from her breasts, laying them at her sides. “You are far too beautiful to hide.” Hermione’s eyes fluttered up to hers, unsure but trusting, before closing again.

    Fleur took the rose in her fingertips, gently drawing it over Hermione’s lips. She knew the brunette would be incredibly alert, and deliberately allowed the fragrance wash over into her senses. She drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of the flower, the velvet-soft petals brushed down her neck, over her collarbone, between her breasts. She felt an unfamiliar heat rush over her body, hotter than before, blossoming down her thighs. There wasn’t a doubt that Fleur could feel her arousal, the larger wave of heat hitting her as well. The temperature in the room skyrocketed, but Hermione’s tremors refused to relent. Soon, the blonde was shaking as well, the Veela’s instinct thrashing about within her as Hermione’s musk filled her own senses, ever skillfully aware of her excitement.

    Fleur traced around the pale skin with the rose, fighting to take her time. The candlelight made Hermione’s skin glow angelically, her breathing the only sound in the room besides the blood rushing in their ears. The rose petals drifted to her chest. It ran around her breast, the sensitive, virgin skin reacted deliciously; a moan tumbled from her lips, surprising them both. Hermione bit her lip, trying to keep from making another noise.

    Fleur leaned forward, gently nibbling at the spot she’d discovered with the rose. Another surprised gasp slipped from her lips; Fleur answered with a low moan, encouraging her to continue.

    Even if she had tried, she wouldn’t have prevailed. The moment Fleur’s lips touched her skin, electricity shot through her, robbing her of all sense of mind. The rose, thankfully free of thorns, was crushed between their bodies as she pulled the blonde to her body, skin against flushed skin. Her fingers tangled themselves in long silk strands, holding Fleur to her. The Frenchwoman matched her moan for moan, grasp for hungry, desperate grasp. Their lips met as passion and hunger flared, then softened, dimming.

    Fleur pulled away, breathing roughly, searching the hazel eyes thoroughly. Hermione’s breath matched hers; a small, embarrassed smile lifted her lips. Fleur kissed those perfect lips gently.

    “Are you ready, ‘Ermione?” Fleur whispered, her accent thicker than before, her words very nearly falling over into her native language. Hermione took a deep breath, nodding slowly.  Fleur kissed her lips again, moving to her neck, and down to her breasts. There, she stayed for several long moments, taking her time to mark the virgin skin with blotches of red and gentle bites. Unsure of her welcome, she pulled herself away, longing to discover what kinds of triggers she could find there. That could wait, though. Hermione wanted her, and so she would have her.

    Fleur continued down Hermione’s body, finally reaching last piece of clothing she wore. The scent hit her like a brick wall, and she found her mouth watering at the thought. Again, the Veela snarled within her, aching to claim her mate, but she resisted, loyal to her promise of deliberately slow passion. She kissed Hermione’s hips gently, looking up for permission. The Englishwoman was tense, her diaphragm moving swiftly as she drew breaths. She rested her head on Hermione’s thigh, trailing the crushed rose over the hot flesh. She remained there, alternating between using the rose and her lips, slowly reaching Hermione’s throbbing heat.

    Fleur hooked her index fingers beneath the last garment, pulling them down and off with strained patience and evident excitement, tossing both the rose and Hermione’s knickers to the floor in neglect. Hermione, now completely exposed, lie before her, panting.

    “I will be gentle, ‘Ermione.” Fleur promised softly. The English witch nodded, biting her lip.  

    Fleur took a deep breath and tied her hair back into a ponytail with a few quick movements. With the blonde locks under tight control, she set about her task. Slowly, always slowly, she kissed her way down Hermione’s stomach, to the next site of expedition. She had prepared herself, just as Hermione had, taking time to make the moment perfect, even using Muggle methods so that every inch of skin was silken and supple. Fleur licked her lips, still straining to be slow and gentle.

    Hermione’s eyes flew open, realizing Fleur’s intent. “No, no Fleur, you don’t have to do that, I’m―”

    “No, ‘Ermione. I want to. I need to.” She whispered in response, gently pushing the brunette’s legs apart again. Hermione resisted, still protesting. “Please, my sweet. Let me give this to you.” With slow, gentle kisses, Hermione gave in, nervously drawing a breath. Her mind may have been nervous beyond description, but her body was throbbing unabashedly, yearning for the blonde.

    Fleur adjusted herself, her eyes locked on Hermione’s face. Her hands reached up and gently grasped the brunette’s thighs, just under her hips. Intense heat rolled off their bodies, the air was thick with desire, yearning, need and chained passion. The Veela kissed the inside of Hermione’s leg, gently running her teeth over the sensitive skin. The English witch bucked instinctively, clenching her jaw tightly closed. Her muscles now contracted at their own desire, gooseflesh covered her whole body, and a deep throbbing ran though her entire form. She felt the Veela’s eyes on her as her breaths teased her pulsing sex, extreme heat coming forth on her exhale, while a shivering chill was left upon inhale.

    Fleur watched, unashamed, smiling every time the brunette shivered under her. She grew bolder, allowing the tip of her tongue to touch Hermione’s clit gently. The brunette froze as this new, exotic sensation filled her. The Veela repeated the motion, a little harder this time, and Hermione’s jaw dropped to release a loud, short moan.

    Fleur felt her control slip with the emitting of the primal sound, and, finally, the Veela’s lips met Hermione’s core gently. Her jaw opened farther than she thought possible, her eyes closed themselves on their own accord and another, louder moan broke her throat. Encouraged, Fleur opened her mouth, fully taking Hermione in the most intimate way. Even as Hermione instinctively lifted her hips, Fleur clutched them, pulling her even closer to her mouth. She ran her tongue over the length of the brunette’s sex, her taste exploding in her mouth; wild, sweet, incredibly exquisite, undertones of salt set the contrast of the strangely saccharine taste beautifully. Hermione couldn’t hold back, vocalizing her pleasure, not giving a damn who heard. Her hands found Fleur’s hair, tangling within the strands. Never had she felt such a sensation, such pressure and tightening of her muscles. She lifted her hips higher, Fleur readily taking her, eager to replace inexperience with expertise.

    Hermione was hot and cold at the same time, shivers ripping though her body and beads of nervous sweat building on her back, needing more, but without a way to ask, if there was any more to be given. Fleur changed her rhythm, drawing tight circles with the tip of her tongue. Fleur dared look up, watching her goddess writhe beneath her tongue. The brunette’s lips were parted, heavy breaths lifting her breasts. One hand still tangled in Fleur’s hair, freeing the tresses from their bind. The other hand grasped the bedclothes tightly, then clutched the blonde’s shoulder, her nails, as short as they were, drew angry red lines across flawless skin.

    The Veela whimpered against Hermione’s sex, the brunette’s hips lifted higher in response, moans tumbling endlessly from her lips. Her head rolled from one side to the other, her tongue constantly wetting her lips as panting breaths dried them. She couldn’t control her body as her hips continued to roll to the Veela’s intrepid tongue, her muscles involuntarily clenching and releasing. Fleur nearly smiled, but stopped her ministrations. Her love protested loudly without words, her body starving for the blonde’s tongue again. A hand pulled at the blonde hair, urging her to return.

    “Shhh, amour…” Fleur whispered. “Be still, my love. I don’t want to hurt you.” Hermione strained to slow her breathing, to keep her back pressed to the bed. The Veela rolled her weight to her side, taking her right hand and gently stroking the inside of a warm, soft thigh. Hermione shivered against the touch. Fleur’s heart pounded in her chest as her fingers reached their destination. A wet heat met eager fingers, drenching them instantly. Hermione sighed heavily, her own heart beating erratically in anticipation.

    Fleur tenderly stroked Hermione’s clit with her fingertip, traveling back down to the source of heat to drench her finger again. After several long minutes, she used her mouth again, beginning to put pressure on her index finger, slowly entering the heat of Hermione’s sex.  

    The brunette gasped, in either pain or pleasure. Fleur paused, looking up at her silently. Hermione panted quietly, her brow knit together, adjusting to the new sensation. Fleur waited patiently, heart thundering in her chest as she felt Hermione’s muscles adjusting to her presence. She lowered her head again, effectively overshadowing the pain with pleasure as her tongue teased the other’s clit in slow, deliberate movements. After a few minutes, Hermione lifted her hips, taking Fleur deeper, a low moan filling the silence. Her hips rolled again, her muscles constricting around Fleur. The Veela moaned against her, sending vibrations pulsing though her sex deliberately.

The feeling was virgin to them both, nearly awkward at first. Hermione kept adjusting herself while Fleur tried to establish a rhythm with her mouth and hand, desperate not to disappoint the brunette. Hermione forced her hips to still, to allow the Veela time to set her own rhythm. Though still, she took her time to truly feel the pleasure being bestowed upon her, heat of the Veela’s wet mouth, the throbbing of her own sex, how it seemed to synchronize with Fleur’s rhythm at times, the strange, new feel of her muscles holding the Veela, drawing her deeper with every thrust.

After a few minutes, Fleur found her rhythm, and it drove the brunette insane.

Hermione couldn’t stop whimpering under Fleur’s mouth as her hips began to buck again on their own accord. Her hands grasped at the blonde tresses, pulling and weaving through the silken strands. A pressure built in her stomach, one she’d never conjured by her own hand but continued to mount as Fleur maintained her rhythm despite Hermione’s erratic hips, moaning against her sex as the writhing brunette above her was the most arousing sight she’d ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Soon, Hermione was begging the Veela to be faster, harder; her every request was rewarded with rough lashes against her clit and strong thrusts inside her accompanied with the blonde’s own whimpers.

    They grew louder, competing with each other. For every thrust of Fleur’s fingers, Hermione pushed forward. For every sound Hermione made, the Veela responded loudly. Their rhythm hastened, Fleur’s free hand grasped Hermione’s tightly, their moans seamless, the harmony of their movements beginning to stutter as Hermione moved faster, meeting the blonde’s thrusts with her own.

    Hermione grew even louder, screaming Fleur’s name to the night, until she threw herself over the edge of orgasm, into a deep, shivering oblivion she’d never met before. She arched her back towards the blonde, her hands clutching her shoulders where they pressed against the backs of her thighs, rocking harder against Fleur’s hand as another orgasm swept through her, quickly following the first as she begged the Veela to continue. Finally, her body relaxed slightly, the hand between her legs slowing its movements, her body still clung to Fleur as she tried to pull away. To aid the process, she planted gentle kisses along Hermione’s legs and hips, licking her clit occasionally until her body allowed her to leave and Hermione lay in a nerveless heap upon the bed, panting and covered in a light sheen of sweat. Her eyes were closed, a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and a great sigh of content lifted her breasts.

She felt Fleur come up to lie at her side, pulling her into her arms, against her bare, heaving chest. The Veela’s warmth radiated from her body as her arms encircled Hermione, holding her tight and safe in a strong lover’s embrace.

    The Veela’s eyes studied closely, carefully, etching every detail of the shivering, gorgeous girl to her memory forever. She’d never witnessed anything more beautiful. Despite her best efforts, she could only manage a half-lidded gaze and a lopsided smile. The aftermath of climax sent shudders through her body, and her heart was reluctant to calm in her chest. She sighed heavily, gingerly laying her hand on the Veela’s chest, feeling the wild cadence thrumming there. She chuckled softly, lazily drawing a heart over Fleur’s breast with a fingertip.

“Do you need any water?” Fleur murmured softly.

Hermione hummed quietly, and the Veela translated it as a yes. Reluctantly, she drew out of bed, and went to the kitchen naked, drawing a tall glass of water from the tap. When she returned, she saw Hermione had halfway regained her senses, for she was sitting upright against the headboard with the duvet drawn tightly about her body, waiting for her.

“How do you feel?”

Hermione drank a good quarter of the water before answering. “Like I’m going to be hoarse tomorrow,” she chuckled.

“It wouldn’t surprise me; I didn’t know you could reach a high C.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, and tugged the blonde into bed after she’d sipped from the glass and carefully situated on the table. “Let’s see how high you can get, then.” The lioness said, rising up from her laying position and trapped the Veela between her arms, hovering over her.

Fleur was in the middle of protest when Hermione’s lips fell on hers gently. “Be selfish tonight. I want to make love to you.” She whispered against her lips, gently trailing her hand down Fleur’s ribcage. The Veela shuddered, and locked eyes with her. She smoldered, looking down into the cobalt blue of Fleur’s eyes, seeing just how much desire rested there. Switching her weight to one arm, the other guided her hand down the blonde’s body, watching her the whole time.

“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable with something, alright?” she murmured softly. Fleur nodded, unable to raise her voice or break eye contact. Hermione’s fingers found the Veela’s breast, her earlier trepidation completely absent from her movements. She stroked the full underside of her breast, gently scratching the soft skin there. Fleur arched into her touch, closing her eyes. Her lips were parted slightly, and the lioness didn’t hesitate to slip her tongue between them, relishing in the way Fleur’s breasts rose to meet hers with a surprised breath. Her own essence was still heavy in Fleur’s mouth, and the moment she tasted it, she plunged her tongue deeper, filling the Veela’s mouth with a loud moan. It was more erotic than anything she’d ever experienced, not that the list was very long to begin with, but knowing that it was her own arousal she tasted on the blonde’s tongue sent shivers down her spine, and she found herself addicted.

Fleur groaned loudly into Hermione’s mouth, her tongue no stranger to the dance as she answered readily, her surprise at Hermione’s eager movements to taste herself abated after a moment. One hand stroked Hermione’s ribs in gentle encouragement, the other systematically clenched and released the blanket beneath her fingers.

Hermione’s fingertips continued their exploration, and soon found a hard nipple, experimentally stroking and pinching the sensitive skin. Fleur arched further, a gasp filling her lungs, but Hermione wasn’t willing to let her get away. She plunged her tongue into the blonde’s mouth, destroying the space between their bodies as she surged forward. Fleur whimpered softly, answering her with vigor, excitement evident in her enthusiasm. She pulled away gently, sucking the blonde’s lower lip into her mouth as she withdrew her hand from her chest. Fleur whimpered again, this time in protest.

“Shh, Fleur,” Hermione whispered softly, moving her hand lower, gliding over the soft skin of Fleur’s hips, scratching lightly. The blonde lifted in response, growling when the hand moved to her thighs, only to return to her hips, then move to her abdomen.

“Please, Hermione…” Fleur whispered, lifting her hips higher in the hope the lioness would comply.

“Please what?” Hermione breathed, her voice centimeters from Fleur’s ear.

The Veela floundered for a moment, unsure of what to say. “Touch me.” She decided at last.

“I am touching you.” Hermione reasoned, a teasing edge in her voice now.

“Then take me.” Fleur growled.

The lioness smiled, and slowly lowered her hand. She knew what to expect, but even expectation didn’t hinder her surprise. Fleur was soaked, her sex hot in anticipation. Her next exhale came with a shudder, and after the initial shock wore off, Hermione began to move. Her fingers were slick in moments, easily driving the blonde crazy with sensations. She slipped her supporting arm under Fleur’s neck for a better angle, and continued her exploration, quickly finding her clit and relishing in the moan that came with it. The noise vibrated through her body, sending her into a frenzy, but she had to remember to be slow.

She held the Veela open with her index and ring fingers, her middle slowly stroking her clit with gentle circles. Fleur panted beneath her, whimpering occasionally as she drew away to wet her finger again, moaning loudly when she returned. Her bottom lip was trapped between her teeth, her eyes closed and her face turned away, a direction Hermione didn’t mind at the moment. She grazed her teeth over the soft skin of Fleur’s neck, earning a sharp gasp and a buck of hips as she did. She took her time in marking Fleur, carefully dividing her attention between the claims she was laying with her mouth and her hand. When she was sure the blonde bore an impressive mark, she moved to her shoulder, still reddened from the earlier attention given by Hermione’s nails, and bit into the soft skin gently. The Veela cried out, not in pain or pleasure, but the combined euphoria of the two.

“Was that too hard?” Hermione asked softly, withdrawing for a moment. Fleur shook her head quickly, and asked for another. The lioness complied, earning another loud cry of pleasure, smiling against her when she felt her hips rise. She pulled away again, and waited for Fleur to meet her gaze. “I need you to relax, all right?”

Fleur nodded, and drew a breath, goose flesh covering every inch of skin. Carefully, Hermione dropped her hand lower, and just as the Veela had, slowly put pressure on her index finger at her opening. She nuzzled Fleur, kissing her lips as the pressure built, and as she slowly entered the heat of her sex. She paused, waiting for her to adjust, and when Fleur lifter her hips again she gently pressed deeper.

The Veela clung to her, she was so tight but the abundant essence made it very easy to move inside. Hermione started slowly, drawing away before pushing back, trying to get her thumb centered on her clit. Fleur moaned softly, and arched her back under Hermione, her hands scratching into her back as she tried to bring her closer. For several long minutes, Fleur moaned out, rocking hard against her, but every now and then, she’d slip off, uncertain of a better angle or method to continue where she’d been interrupted.

“Could you…” she panted. “Could you do what I did?” She asked softly. Hermione kissed her lips a final time, and brought her mouth to Fleur’s clit. The taste was unbelievable; Fleur was actually sweet, wild, unlike any fruit or berry and impossible of explanation. Hermione took her time in exploring this taste, licking over nearly every inch of Fleur’s sex to capture it. The Veela was nearly thrashing below her, moving against Hermione’s fingers herself as the brunette had become too entranced with this new sensation to remember to thrust.

She picked her pace back up, still moving slowly, even though the blonde seemed more than insistent. Her hands came to tangle in Hermione’s mane, weaving through the untamed locks as she moved her tongue over her clit, pulling her closer with her hands as her hips began moving faster, harder against her lover. Moans spilled over her lips, lifting into the night as she begged Hermione to be faster, harder, insisting that she wasn’t hurting her when finally, she flicked her tongue in one long, slow motion, and Fleur let go. She writhed beneath Hermione’s tongue, screaming her pleasure into the night, thanking every god that she’d had the presence of mind to cast a silencing-charm before sanity escaped her. She lost herself in orgasm, in the pulsing, throbbing ache of her muscles as they slowly relaxed.

When Hermione returned to her side, she realized her lover had not yet left her, and shivered at the prospect. She shifted slightly, turning her face into Hermione’s chest where she held her, sighing a great sigh. The brunette withdrew carefully, uncertainly wiping her fingers on the duvet, thinking she had better things to attend to at the moment. She drew Fleur closer, peppering her forehead with kisses.

“Do you need water?” She asked softly. The Veela shook her head no, and buried her face farther into Hermione’s chest, her hold tightening around her. Her shoulders began to shake slightly, and the lioness soon felt hot tears dripping onto her chest. That was when she felt it.

Magic hung thick in the air like a perfumed sensor, wrapping them in a tight embrace, seeping through their skin and into their bloodstreams. She felt a click resonate in her soul, and held the Veela tighter. It was finished. The first ritual had been completed and the second, lifelong one began. Together, they would tread a path through the world, united by star and now by soul. They were a mated pair, and Hermione felt herself begin to cry at the thought.

She kissed Fleur again and again, her tears mingling with her kisses as she moved all over her face and body. Fleur answered happily, smiling as she met Hermione’s lips in the middle, uncaring of the essence on her mouth. She blew the candle out, and the room was filled with darkness again. But nothing had been so bright before. Moonlight streamed through the curtains, the stars shone happily, and neither of them had ever felt so whole. They clutched one another tightly, whispering loving words to one another until they finally found sleep curled into each other’s arms, the Veela magic lulling them to dreams as it continued sealing their souls together and as the stars melded in the sky overhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Hot. Damn. That was my first attempt at smut. Please, tell me what you thought. Was it enough? Was it lacking anything? Can I improve on something? Don't be shy.  
> The next sexy things will be even more explicit, and Hermione's going to discover she enjoys being in control... gonna be fun.  
> Fun fact: the ‘sweet tasting’ thing I mentioned is actually possible. The trick is lots and lots and lots of water. Eating plenty of fruit can really help too. Oh, the wonders of the human body. But seriously, if you/friend/partner ever worries about how you/they taste, that’s how you make it super enjoyable. And apparently it works for men, too. I don’t personally know, since I’m a woman that’s only ever been (and will be) with other women, so I’m not a very good candidate for scientific or sexual comparison/inquiry. In any case, that’s what I know, and I hope that helped either clear things up from the chapter, or in someone’s life.  
> Till next time, lovelies!  
> <3  
> RC


	13. A Date With Rita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, lovelies! Sorry for the brief hiatus, just thought I'd give you guys some time with that last chapter. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it and I would like to extend my most gracious thanks to those who dropped a comment, kudo, or just read the damn thing xD. And those readers who apparently binged on this series: wow. Holy. God. You guys read over 144,400 words in three days. Applause to you. And of course, applause to those who've stood with me from the beginning! Love you bunches.   
> Now, this next chapter does not feature sex. It features plot, and I feel it's very important to note that the content of this chapter is very similar to what happened in the book. I do not wish to plagiarize, nor do I aspire to make profit from this work of fanfiction. The only riches I've received from writing this series is in friendships made, and the exploring of the ever-expanding realms of possibility and imagination, and that's more than enough for me. We also see another aspect of the Veela influence within Hermione since the mating in terms of sharper senses, which I hope you'll find to be pretty cool. Without further ado, go and have fun.   
> And by the way, the chapter after this one will feature Hermione's use of control and dominance. So there's something to look forward to :D  
> Much love,   
> RC

They slept throughout the night contentedly, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s presence. Hermione woke with a start once, alarmed that the time they shared was a dream, but when she saw the gorgeous, naked Veela sleeping beside her, she smiled and snuggled against her mate’s side, fully intent on spending the better part of the day in bed with her.

An hour later, Fleur woke to a warm, soft body against her. Without opening her eyes, her hands sought out the other, turning over to press every part of her body to Hermione’s. When she finally settled again, the lioness lay in her arms, her ear pressed to her chest, the blonde’s hands tenderly petting the other’s back in slow, loving strokes. Hermione hummed softly, kissing Fleur’s breast with chuckle, the dark red mark upon her neck easily discernible from the pale skin it competed with. She traced the outline, another physical reminder of what they had shared the night before, of what would continue.

“How did you sleep?” Fleur murmured softly, breaking the minutes-long silence, punctuated only by sighs of contentment or soft moans of appreciation as one touched the other.

“Better than I ever have,” Hermione returned with a smile. “What about you?”

The Veela murmured softly in agreement, kissing her forehead gently. “And how do you feel?”

The Gryffindor shifted her hips slightly, snuggling closer. “A little sore, but it’s not terrible. You?”

“About the same, actually.” Fleur sighed before she fell silent again.

“How was it…?” Hermione murmured, almost embarrassed.

To her relief, the Veela chuckled beneath her. “Hermione, it was incredible. _You_ were incredible.”

The lioness flushed, and tucked her face beneath the blonde’s chin. “You did very well, yourself…”

Fleur rolled her eyes. “Perhaps after I half-way learned what I was doing.” She chuckled. “Although, I am French…”

Hermione slapped her arm gently as a wide smile lit up her features. “Ah, yes, the French. I’ve always heard they make amazing lovers. Perhaps it has something to do with the language.”

It was Fleur’s turn to flush at the innuendo involving her mouth. Hermione’s playful praise surprised her greatly. She hadn’t expected to casually chat about their previous night’s performance, but then again, the whole thing was new to them both. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, a way to say, _yes, that actually happened, and I’m so happy I can’t believe it unless we keep talking about it._

Fleur chuckled at her own musings, finding them to be at least half correct when it came to her own motives for the directions of their conversation regarding their first time.

The sun soon rose high in the sky, pardoned by clouds, and told them of the nearing noontime hour. Fleur would have been more than happy to lay in bed all day, perhaps even indulge in the lioness again, but their stomachs had other, more mundane ideas. When Hermione’s belly began to rumble, Fleur dutifully rose out of bed and slipped a robe over her body, more for warmth rather than shame or fear.

Hermione followed her, after stealing a spare robe, and the two made their way down the hall, and finally into the kitchen, where they set to making the most convenient late breakfast/early lunch meal they possibly could. Thraso pecked insistently at the window, bearing a letter. Confused, Fleur forced the panes apart, and admitted the owl. She took the letter and seated herself at the table again, ripped it open, and flicked her eyes over it quickly.

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

“A letter from Grand-mère. She saw our stars last night,” She murmured softly, thoughtfully, before she chuckled. “And she’s telling me things that I already know.”

“Such as?” Hermione questioned, taking a bite of toast.

“Things with Shamin. Now that we’ve mated, you share him too, to a degree.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “ _I_ have a dragon?”

“Not exactly,” Fleur laughed. “You’ll be able to communicate with him the way I do after a while. If he wasn’t already loyal to you, he will be now.” She looked off into the distance, the expression on her face suggesting that she had more to say on the matter, but thought better to wait on the idea.

“Wow…” Hermione murmured. “The Veela soul is spit several ways, isn’t it?”

“Split isn’t the word I would use. Tied is a little more accurate. I’m tied to you, and Shamin to me.”

Hermione considered silently. “Hypothetically, what happens if a dragon’s Veela dies?”

“The dragon dies, too. Almost instantly.”

“And what about the Veela’s mate?”

“The dragon is indirectly linked to the mate, meaning that they would die only when the Veela did,”

“…You really need to write all this stuff down,” Hermione murmured. “If not for scholarly purposes, at least for the mates that don’t know anything.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” Fleur sighed. “I suppose it’s a good way to keep conversation going,”

“It is very sad, though… so much is at stake…” Hermione sighed, leaning back in her chair. “But I don’t want to think about sad. We’ll be back to school and work tomorrow, that’s sad enough.”

Fleur groaned. “Don’t remind me. Back to the goblins for the both of us, huh?” she chuckled. “Though I do think the Gringott’s goblins are better than the one in Hogwarts.”

“I’m sure they are. At least they’d let us practice magic.” She grumbled in return.

“Speaking of, when is the next D.A. meeting?”

“We don’t know yet, but as soon as we do, I’ll let you know.” She cast a doleful glance at the clock above the mantle, and sighed heavily. “We’ve slept nearly all day; the other students will be arriving in Hogsmeade soon…”

“So you need to get going,” Fleur finished, her tone light but her eyes forlorn. Their ritual had just been finished, and now, they were being forced apart again. How long could she take it? How long could Hermione take it? She had no answers, but knew she must continue on without fail. Strength is the key to all doors, behind which success lies. They would make it. They had no choice.

Hermione reached out and took Fleur’s hand in her own. “It won’t be long, dearest.”

Fleur stood and destroyed the space between them, her arms tight and warm about her lioness. “Feel free to drop by any time,” She murmured against her cheek.

The Gryffindor smiled happily. “And you as well. What will you be doing now? You have the rest of the day to be lazy, and that’s no fun alone.”

“Actually, Kingsley is teaching me some spells for the Order. We’ve been meeting occasionally to practice, and I’ve learned quite a few of their tricks. After the damn Ministry gets straightened out, I might switch careers and become an Auror.” She chuckled.

“Well tell him I said hello, then.” Hermione returned with a smile. “And please be careful, love.”

Fleur kissed her nose gently. “Always. Go on and get dressed, the remainder of the year awaits.” The Veela said, rising to stand and put the dishes in the sink, flicking her wand to get the sponge scrubbing. She brushed her hair back, and Hermione caught a glimpse of the mark she’d left on the Veela. She flushed, and approached her silently, wrapping her arms about the blonde, every inch of her body pressed against her back.

“I believe you’ll have to wear high-necked tops for a few days, love.” She whispered, her hands rubbing circles into Fleur’s hips.

To her surprise, she only laughed at the notion. “I’m afraid you’ll be the only one to worry about that, dearest.” She chuckled.

“What are you talking about?” She asked, startled. Horrified, she dug through the drawer and looked at her reflection in the back of a teaspoon. True to Fleur’s word, a dark bruise had been left on her neck, nearly impossible to cover. She gasped, and looked at Fleur wordlessly. The Veela shrugged with a small smile.

“Sorry, love. I didn’t realize I’d left it… or that it would be so dark.”

“Please tell me you have concealer.”

Fleur laughed again. “Of course I do.” She wrapped an arm around Hermione’s waist and led her into the bedroom, instructing her to dress while she looked for the make-up. When she found it, they traded places and Fleur dressed hastily, nearly running late for her meeting with Kingsley. When Hermione finished in the bathroom, she found Fleur waiting for her, dressed in dark jeans, and a gray long-sleeved V-neck, her mark put blatantly on display.

“You’re not worried about covering yours?” Hermione asked, eyeing her neck.

“Not at all,” Fleur replied. “What would Kingsley or the goblins care? You, on the other hand, have to encounter others who won’t be so careless about what happened last night.” She arched an eyebrow.

Hermione sighed. “I feel like all our dealings with Umbridge will come to a head soon enough. Then, perhaps we won’t have to be so cautious.”

“It does feel that way, doesn’t it? Please tread carefully, love. I don’t want anything happening to you,” she murmured, taking the other into her arms tightly.

“I’ll be more than careful. Come now, we should get going,” Fleur nodded, and escorted Hermione to the train station, several minutes before it would arrive. With a quick parting kiss, she Apparated away to Headquarters, praying Kingsley wouldn’t chastise her.

Hermione met Harry and Ron just outside the train station in Hogwarts pretending she’d been one of the first to get off. When they saw her, the instantly recognized something different about her. She stood proud, tall, she actually seemed to glow with happiness. When she walked, her steps didn’t stutter, even as those around her did. She carried herself with an effortless grace, perfect posture, and within the dark depths of her eyes, she carried a light that hadn’t been there before. This light didn’t shine as intellect or curiosity or understanding did, all three permanent residents in her gaze, but this light, it was more than happiness. It was more than pride. It did not seem to have a name, but how terribly familiar was that light… Harry could not decide, and finally voiced his curious concern.

“Hermione, are you feeling all right?” he asked softly.

“Never better. Why do you ask?” she returned, casting a sideways glance at him.

“You just seem… different.” He finished.

“Well, _something_ did happen…” she admitted sheepishly.

Harry’s eyes widened in understanding, a bright smile lighting up his features. Hermione blushed darkly, her face hidden behind her hair.

“Come on, ‘Mione, it’s not a bad thing! It’s happy!” He exclaimed, looping an arm around the girl’s shoulders. Ron was still confused, but his questions remained unanswered through their journey to the castle, even as Harry congratulated her and continued laughing at the blush that darkened even further.

_That’s it!_ Harry thought happily. The light’s name was not pride, nor happiness, nor knowledge, but _Veela_.

 

 

* * *

 

The next days passed uneventfully. Harry’s Occlumency lessons started immediately, leaving him irritable and tired at the dusks of Mondays and Wednesdays. Due to the new hiccup in his schedule, along with the mountains of fifth-year homework, he could hardly find time for D.A. meetings, but when he did, Fleur was always there, taking his place at times when he felt he needed to rest for a moment.

As Harry’s lessons continued, it became perfectly clear that Voldemort was at the very least becoming aware of the connection between their minds. And Harry was hardly apt for the task of preventing it. He found himself terrified to sleep, instead staring up at the ceilings, or when he did find sleep, dreaming about the same corridor that unquestioningly led to the Department of Mysteries, and the weapon that Voldemort was hell-bent on obtaining and using.

 

January flew by at a surprising pace, rushing up to them as the ground does when one is falling. Fleur had become somewhat of an Auror intern with Kingsley as her mentor when they both could find time to practice, but the Veela had a sharp mind and was a quick learner. In the vaults, she practiced and mastered spells Kingsley had taught her most recently, ready for new ones to add to her repertoire by their next meeting. Bill had taken to learning the new spells too, though teaching and coaching him helped the Veela more than any other practice did.

They were pleased with themselves, however, when they had exhausted Kingsley  of offensive spells, seamlessly moving on to defensive magic, and even tips on potion-brewing. The Veela, having spent many years with her grandmother, had a well-practiced arsenal of skills when it came to that field, surpassing even Kingsley himself in some aspects.

 Hermione wasn’t having much luck. She fell back on taking the silencing potion before Defense Against the Dark Arts, desperate to keep herself inevitably mute throughout class. Even with the lessons with the D.A. and the more-frequent midnight visits to Fleur, which did not _always_ lead to or end in sex, she found herself growing more and more agitated with the woman.

The media coverage and politics did nothing to cheer her either.

One morning, towards the end of January, the _Daily Prophet_ delivered a bone-chilling headline and front page, bearing ten mug-shot photographs from Azkaban. Hermione’s eyes widened, and a sharp gasp interrupted the daily banter between Harry and Ron.

“What is it?” they asked in unison. 

The lioness said nothing, but pushed the paper over to them. Harry flicked his eyes across it, and his face paled.

“That’s why he was happy last night,” she murmured softly. The previous night, Ron had awoken in the wee hours to find Harry laughing manically, apparently in his sleep, but so madly, so violently, it had roused everyone in the dormitory. _He’s really happy…_ Harry had said. _Really happy… Something good’s happened._

“And Fudge thinks Siri—”

“Shh!” Hermione hushed him quickly, glancing around before she continued in a softer voice. “Not so loud! You can’t possibly think he’d say, ‘Sorry, everyone, Dumbledore said this might happen, the Azkaban guards have joined Lord Voldemort’—stop _whimpering,_ Ron—‘and now Voldemort’s worst supporters have broken out too.’ He’s just spent the last six months trying to convince the public that both you and Dumbledore are liars, hasn’t he?”

Harry looked away from her, studying the other students. “Yeah,” he finally whispered. “He has,”

The lioness nodded. “Now, let me read the rest of the report and see what other kinds of bullshit he coughed up.” Ron glanced up at the curse. Hermione continued as though she hadn’t noticed. By now, even the redheaded Gryffindor knew of her finished partnership with the Veela, and from late-night conversations with Harry, now saw Veela traits arising in her everyday mannerisms, too.

It went beyond how she carried herself, beyond the new light in her eyes. Her pride was visible, a tangible force field around her that not even Malfoy could seem to impact or shake, not that he’d expressed much of a desire to as of yet. Her words were sharper, carrying not only intellect but authority with them as they were spoken. She could hardly stand to sit still for longer than a few minutes at a time, positively bursting with energy even at the breakfast table. She’d even started running the grounds of Hogwarts, hoping to burn off some steam before retiring to bed and sometimes even before class began.

The Veela’s impact on her could not go unnoticed, but it did not seem to have a single negative side effect. Harry reveled in it, very accustomed to Fleur’s fighting spirit as it manifested in Hermione. They’d trade glances at each other during Umbridge’s baby-sitting class and during D.A. meetings, they practiced harder, with more vigor than they had ever mustered before.

After the _Prophet_ featured the article about Azkaban, Umbridge announced another Decree, forbidding professors to speak to students about any topic that wasn’t strictly related to the subject they were paid to teach. Lee Jordan made the mistake of shouting out to Umbridge in accordance to her new rule she was not allowed to tell Fred and George off for playing Exploding Snap in the back of class. “Exploding Snap’s got nothing to do with Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor! That’s not information relating to your subject!”

When Hermione saw him the next evening, his hand was bleeding badly. The lioness hastily handed over her jar of murtlap essence to her fellow Gryffindor, who thanked her several times upon feeling the pain recede after the substance had touched the wound.

With the Azkaban breakouts fueling her, the toad-like woman seemed hell-bent on controlling nearly every aspect of life at Hogwarts, and she seemed even more determined to sack a professor soon; it was only a question of who would go first, Hagrid or Professor Trelawney. She also moved so far as to take every privilege Harry had without sound reason to do so; his visits to Hagrid’s hut was discontinued in effort to save his job, letters to and from Sirius were only capable through Fleur and Hermione’s wands, she’d taken his Firebolt, and of course, Quidditch had long been gone.

The only thing that kept his fire alive was the D.A. meetings. He took great pride in all his mentees’ progress, none more astonishing than Neville’s. From working with Fleur, and hearing of his parent’s attacker’s escape from prison, he submerged himself in magic, in a deeply inlaid strength that, until now, he’d had no idea he possessed.

 

It was the morning of Valentine’s Day, thankfully a Saturday and a Hogsmeade weekend, which meant a more proper Valentine’s Day for Fleur and Hermione than their first had been, when the Tournament forced them to spend long hours in the library, desperate to find answers. To be completely honest, Hermione had rather enjoyed that Valentine’s Day. She’d gotten to gaze at Fleur while the firelight shone in her eyes and her hair, outlining her skin in a bronze glow. She’d gotten to run her hands over the blue Beauxbaton uniform when the Veela took a break every hour, making her forget the pain in her neck as she kissed her deeply, grinding her hips into the windowsill as she did so.

Hermione shook off the memories, half-heartedly trying to keep her thoughts from turning to how this Valentine’s Day would proceed. In the end, she imagined Fleur beneath her, blue eyes wide, her voice sultry and desperate, her hands roaming over her back, her nails scratching into her skin in a fruitless attempt to bring her closer. She shivered, and began bouncing her knee, already tired of sitting still. _Is this how she always feels?_ she thought, casting a longing glance out the window.  

Harry seemed to be less optimistic about his date with Cho Chang. He’d dressed carefully and asked Hermione for date-conversation advice. She’d listed off a few things, interests, deeper philosophical questions, among others, but that did not seem to quell him nerves. Ron was training all day with the Gryffindor Quidditch team, even though it was a lost cause, and he had no desire to bare his relational ineptness to anyone else.    

A barn owl landed before Hermione halfway through their conversation, bearing a letter, whose arrival seemed to pull her from all thought. “About time!” She huffed. “Harry, could you meet me in the Three Broomsticks around midday?”

“Cho might be expecting me to spend all day with her, we never really discussed what we were going to do…”

“You can bring her if you must,” Hermione insisted. “But it’s really important. So will you come?”

“All right, but why?”

“I haven’t got time to tell you now, I’ve got to answer this,” and with that, she went up to her dormitory, the letter in one hand, and an unbitten piece of toast in the other.

 

Shortly after answering her letter, Hermione made her way into Hogsmeade and let herself into Fleur’s house, the wards set there accustomed and trusting of her presence. Fleur was found lounging on the sofa, some papers in hand along with a quill, her hair messily done up in a falling bun. Upon hearing Hermione’s entrance, she put the pages down on the coffee table, a very late birthday present (since her birthday was actually at the tail-end of August) from her uncle who’d meticulously hand-crafted and assembled the whole piece.

She rose and met the lioness halfway, wrapping her arms around the younger witch. “Hello, dearest. Happy Valentine’s Day,” she smiled, kissing Hermione’s lips gently.

Hermione hummed softly against the Veela’s mouth, returning the sentiment. “Do   
you have anything in mind for how we are to spend our evening?” She asked with a wink.

Fleur chuckled. “Well, I do have the most handsome stack of legal forms to fill out, that would be a very romantic activity by firelight, don’t you think?”

Hermione hit her arm softly and laughed. “Seriously, any ideas?”

“Well,” the Veela returned. “I was serious about those legal forms.” Hermione rolled her eyes, but Fleur picked back up before she could say anything. “But I think I deserve a break. Did you have anything in mind?”

Hermione sauntered closer, kissing the Veela’s jaw. “Well, a few things, actually, but sadly most will have to wait for later. In the meantime, perhaps a little window shopping? Maybe stop for a drink or something to eat? I’m supposed to meet Harry around noon.”

Fleur smiled. “Of course. Lead the way.”

The two browsed the shops for a few hours, pictures of the escaped prisoners plastered to every shop unnerved the two. Hermione bought a few new books and caught Harry’s eye as they passed him, seated with Cho Chang, at Madam Puddifoot’s tea shop.

“That doesn’t look like it’s going well,” Fleur murmured as she waved.

Hermione agreed softly. “I think she’s still trying to adjust to her feelings, and trying to move past Cedric. Poor thing…” She said softly. She checked her watch and set the course for The Three Broomsticks.

“He should be meeting us here in a few minutes,” Hermione explained. “I guess we’ll see how well it went.” She paused for a moment, scanning the pub. “Ah, there we are! Come on, this way.”

Fleur nearly balked when she saw where Hermione was leading her. “What is Rita Skeeter doing here?” She hissed.

“You’ll see, please just trust me,”

“It’s _her_ I don’t trust!” Fleur insisted.

“She won’t do anything to us, Fleur. I’ve thought this through very carefully, please just follow my lead—hello Luna, Rita,” she said as they drew nearer, nodding to each of them in turn. Fleur murmured a greeting as well as she pulled Hermione’s chair out and pushed it back in.

“Hermione, Fleur,” Rita returned coldly, while Luna waved happily at them both. The ex-journalist looked incredibly disheveled, for unemployment fit her poorly. The blonde hair that had once hung in elaborate curls now fell limp and unkempt in around her face. The crimson polish was chipping off her two-inch talons, and there were several false jewels missing from her winged spectacles.

Harry entered then, alone, and Hermione ushered him over. When he saw Rita, he looked just as surprised as Fleur had felt, and he reluctantly settled into a chair, casting questioning glances to Fleur. She lifted one shoulder, gave a discreet shake of her head, and eyed Hermione. He nodded begrudgingly and greeted everyone.

“How did your meeting with Cho go?” Fleur asked quietly.

“Cho?” Rita spoke up. “A _girl?”_ She leaned down, and dug through her crocodile-skin handbag.

“It’s none of _your_ business.” Hermione growled from the Veela’s side. Rita instantly stopped her digging. “So you can put that away right now.” She said coolly, eyeing the acid-green quill and notepad in her hand. Rita complied reluctantly, and hung the bag on the back of her chair again.

“Pretty girl, is she, Harry?” Rita asked.

“One more question about Harry’s love life and the deal’s off. That’s a promise.” Hermione said, her eyes locked on Rita’s. Fleur studied the lioness closely, and chuckled softly. She certainly was displaying Veela traits now. Her eyes flashed dangerously, heat rolled from her body, her posture was perfect, and her voice carried across the space sharply, leaving no room for refusal. She smiled, pleased.

“What deal?” Said Rita, wiping her mouth after she’d taken a sip of her drink. “You haven’t mentioned a deal yet, Miss… _Granger.”_ She decided smartly, casting a wary glance at Fleur. “You just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these days…” She took a deep breath, desperate to avoid setting the Veela on edge. Hermione, however, was in completely in control.

“Yes, yes, one of these days you’ll write even more horrible stories about Harry, Fleur and me,” Hermione returned, waving her hand dismissively. “Find someone who gives a damn why don’t you?”

“They’ve run plenty of horrible stories about Harry this year without my help.” Rita said, casting a sideways glance at Harry over her glass. “How has that made you feel, Harry? Betrayed? Distraught? Misunderstood?”

“He feels angry, of course,” Hermione said in a hard, clear voice. “Because he’s told the Minister of Magic and the Minister’s too much of an idiot to believe him.”

“So you actually stick to it then, do you, that He-Who-Must-Not-be-Named is back?” Rita asked, her glass pausing right before her lips as she caught Harry in a piercing stare, while her finger started to reach for her handbag again. “You stand by all this garbage Dumbledore’s been telling everybody about You-Know-Who returning and you being the sole witness—?”

 “I wasn’t the sole witness,” Harry snarled. “There were a dozen-odd Death Eaters present. Want their names?”

“I’d love them.” Rita breathed, digging into her bag again, this time without reprimand from Hermione. “A great bold headline: _‘Potter Accuses…’_ A subheading: _‘Harry Potter Names Death Eaters Still Among Us.’_ And then, beneath a big photograph of you: _‘Disturbed teenage survivor of You-Know-Who’s attack, Harry Potter, 15, caused outrage yesterday by accusing respectable and prominent members of the Wizarding community of being Death Eaters…’”_

The Quick-Quotes Quill was actually in her hand and halfway to her mouth when the rapturous expression died out of her face.

“But of course,” She said, lowering the quill and looking daggers at Hermione, “Little Miss Perfect wouldn’t want that story out there, would she?”

Fleur stiffened, and opened her mouth, but Hermione beat her. “As a matter of fact,” Hermione said sweetly. “That’s exactly what Little Miss Perfect _does_ want.” She finished, fixing the other witch in her stare. Fleur relaxed as Hermione rested her hand on her knee, squeezing gently to tell her, _It’s ok; I’ve got everything under control._ Fleur, receiving the message quite clear, sat back, and watched.

Rita stared at her, Harry’s gaze flicking between the Veela and lioness while Luna softly hummed ‘Weasley Is Our King’ under her breath while stirring her drink with a speared cocktail onion.

“You _want_ me to report what he says about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” Rita asked Hermione in a hushed voice.

“I do,” Hermione returned. “The true story. All the facts. Exactly as Harry reports them. He’ll give you all the details, he’ll tell you the names of undiscovered Death Eaters he saw there, he’ll tell you what Voldemort looks like now—get a grip on yourself,” She added contemptuously, throwing a napkin across the table, for at the utterance of Voldemort’s name, Rita had jumped so violently, she sloshed half her glass of firewhisky down herself.

Rita blotted the front of her grubby raincoat, still staring at Hermione. “The _Prophet_ wouldn’t print it. In case you haven’t noticed, nobody believes his cock-and-bull story. Everyone thinks he’s delusional. Now, if you let me write the story from that angle—”

“We don’t need another story on how Harry’s lost his marbles!” Hermione said angrily. “We’ve had plenty of those already, thank you! I want him given the opportunity to tell the truth!”

“There’s no market for a story like that.” Rita returned coldly.

“You mean the _Prophet_ won’t print it because Fudge won’t let them.” Hermione said irritably.

Rita gave Hermione a long, hard look. Then, leaning forward across the table towards her, she said in a businesslike tone, “All right, Fudge is leaning on the _Prophet,_ but it comes to the same thing. They won’t print a story that shows Harry in a good light. Nobody wants to read it. It’s against the public mood. The last Azkaban breakout had got people quite worried enough. People just don’t want to believe You-Know-Who’s back.”

“So the _Daily Prophet_ exists to tell people what they want to hear, does it?” Hermione asked scathingly.

Rita sat up straight, drained the last of her firewhisky, and raised her eyebrows at Hermione. “The _Prophet_ exists to sell itself, you—” Fleur had straightened as well, and was carefully watching Rita with a dangerous expression.

“My dad thinks it’s an awful paper,” Luna chirped, joining the conversation unexpectedly. Sucking on her cocktail onion, she gazed at Rita with protuberant, slightly mad eyes. “He publishes important stories that he thinks the public needs to know. He doesn’t care about making money.”

Rita looked disparagingly at Luna. “I’m guessing your father runs some stupid little village newsletter?” she said. “’Twenty-five Ways to Mingle with Muggles’ and the dates of the next Bring-and-Fly Sale?”

“No,” Luna said, dipping her onion back into her gillywater. “He’s the editor of _The_ _Quibbler.”_

Rita snorted so loudly that people at nearby tables turned to look at her in alarm. “‘Important stories he thinks the public needs to know’?” She said witheringly. “I could manure my garden with the contents of that rag.”

“Well, this is your chance to raise the tone of it a bit, isn’t it?” Hermione asked happily. “Luna says her father’s quite happy to take Harry’s interview. That’s who’ll be publishing it.”

Rita stared at them both for a long moment and then let out a loud whoop of laughter. “ _The Quibbler!”_ She said, cackling. “You think people will take him seriously if he’s published in _The Quibbler?”_

“Some people won’t,” Hermione said evenly. “But the _Daily Prophet’s_ version of the breakout had some gaping holes in it. I think a lot of people will be wondering whether there isn’t a better explanation of what happened, and if there’s an alternative story available, even if it is published in a—” she spared a glance at Luna. “in a, well, an _unusual_ magazine—I think they might be rather keen to read it.”

Rita said nothing for a long moment, studying Hermione with her head tilted a bit to one side. In the time that they were staring intently at one another, a waiter approached, and asked Fleur a few questions as they’d worked together, and went off to fetch two butterbeers for Harry and Hermione, and small glass of wine for Fleur. When he returned with their drinks, the two still hadn’t breathed a word.

“Wine already, darling?” Hermione asked when Fleur sipped from her glass.

The Veela shrugged. “This is turning out to be an interesting performance, I thought I should drink to it respectfully.” Hermione chuckled softly, but kept her eyes trained on Rita.

“Let’s say for a moment I’ll do it,” she said suddenly, breaking eye contact for a moment. “What kind of fee am I going to get?”

“I don’t think Daddy exactly pays people to write for the magazine.” Luna said dreamily. “They do it because it’s an honor, and, of course, to see their names in print.”

Rita Skeeter looked as though she were swallowing Stinksap. “I’m supposed to do this for _free?”_

“Well, yes,” Hermione said placidly, lifting her bottle to her lips. “Otherwise, as you very well know, I will inform the authorities that you are an unregistered Animangus. Of course, the _Prophet_ might give you a lot for an insider’s account of life in Azkaban…”

Rita looked at Hermione like she wanted to beat her with her butterbeer bottle. “I don’t suppose I’ve got any choice, do I?” She said, her voice shaking slightly. She lifted her quill once more, and smoothed a piece of parchment on the table.

“Daddy will be pleased,” Luna said brightly. A muscle twitched in Rita’s jaw.

“Okay, Harry? Ready to tell the public the truth?” Hermione asked.

“I suppose,” Harry returned, watching Rita balance the quill at the ready on the parchment between them.

“Fire away, Rita.” Hermione said, sitting back in her chair with a victorious air about her as she sipped from her bottle, her fingers weaving with Fleur’s beneath the table.

 

Luna couldn’t say when the interview will be published in _The Quibbler,_ but she did tell them she would get several copies so each could have their own. Hermione, Fleur, and Harry left the pub shortly after the interview had ended and went to their usual restaurant in Hogsmeade for a late lunch. Luna had been invited along, but she politely refused, instead returned to Hogwarts to complete some homework. When the sun began to sink off, the two Gryffindors reluctantly parted, leaving Fleur’s home with two borrowed umbrellas to shield them from the cold, pounding rain.

“So, how is it?” Harry asked softly.

“How’s what?”

“Being… well, _mated,_ I guess,” Harry clarified, flushing.

Hermione chuckled. “Oh, that. It’s… well, it’s incredible.” She murmured. “I feel a bond with her that I haven’t felt with anyone else, like we’re connected in all these different ways. Of course, I felt that way before we… finished, but now, so much is changing. I feel completely open with her, like we can talk about anything, or fight anything in our way… And _I’m_ changing, Harry. She told me it would happen, but it’s more than I had imagined. I can see clearer than I could before, I can hear things I couldn’t, I can even smell things from far away. You see that witch over there?” she asked, pointing. Harry nodded. “What do you think’s in her flask?”

“I dunno. Firewhisky?”

“No. Brandy. Fifty-proof, aged twenty-five years. It the same kind my father drinks, in the event that he drinks at all.” As they passed, the scent of brandy was so strong, even Harry could pick it up, and he looked at Hermione incredulously as he did.

“How on earth…”

“How about Katie Bell in front of us? She’s eating licorice from Honeydukes, bet you anything.”

Harry shot her a pointed look before he glanced back at the girl fifty yards in front of them. “How do you know that’s Katie? They’re wearing the same jumper fifty other people have and the hood’s up.”

Hermione rolled her eyes with a smile. “The rose and honeysuckle perfume she got for Christmas. She spent three days learning how many times she needed to spray it before she emanated a three-foot radius of scent around her.”

Harry still looked suspicious, but remembered the ordeal well, however, no matter how many breaths he took or how wide he spread his nostrils, he could not detect the scent. “Hello, Katie? May I offer you my umbrella?” Harry called.

Upon turning, the hooded girl pointed at said hood with a twisted licorice stick. “No, thanks, Harry, this keeps me dry enough!” she called back.

Harry let out a loud laugh. “That’s incredible! And this all happened when you and Fleur… well…”

“Yes, Harry. After Fleur and I had sex.”

The wizard seemed speechless for a moment. “Ah, yes. Well, uh, how was that then?”

Hermione looked at him uncertainly. “You really want to hear about that?”

“Well, I just want to look out for you, you know? You’re the closest thing I have to a sister.”

Hermione chuckled and bumped him with her shoulder. “She’s very nice to me, Harry. Very gentle, and kind, and slow, and gives me anything I ask for in any situation, sexual or otherwise. More than I can ask for, actually. She’s perfect.” She sighed.

Harry chuckled. “So long as you’re happy, ‘Mione.”

She looked at him, and even through the rain, her smile was blinding. “I am, Harry. Even with all the crazy stuff with the Ministry and Umbridge, when she’s with me, I’m so happy.”

They walked together in silence, for a few minutes before Hermione raised her voice again. “By the way, I never asked you how it went with Cho. How was it?”

Harry sighed heavily. “Dreadful. We just… sat there, really. And everyone around us were touching and kissing, and I had no idea what to do or talk about. When I told her about meeting you, she lost her head. Started accusing me of favoring you.”

“Doesn’t she know about Fleur and me?”

“She does, she just accused me anyway. I don’t, I just don’t understand.” He sighed.

“She’s probably still adjusting to fancying you after Cedric. Sometimes it’s easier to blame others when the problem is internal. It’s a defense mechanism, actually. Give her some time, Harry. It’s difficult for her,”

He nodded, but didn’t raise his voice again until they had nearly returned to the castle. “So are you going back to Fleur’s tonight?”

Hermione flushed darkly. “We have… plans…”

Harry laughed and patted her back, closing his umbrella as they entered the castle.

“Would you like the map?” He whispered in her ear.

She looked up at him sharply, hardly believing that he’d offer it. “Harry, are you sure?”

“Well, you did arrange that meeting with Skeeter, and that allows at least someone to get the story out about what’s actually going on.”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s ok, really, Hermione. I’ll get it for you after dinner. Unless you’re not planning on attending dinner…?”

Hermione laughed and rolled her eyes. “No, I’ll be at dinner, Harry.”


	14. Sexy Time Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd give warnings before sexy chapters. So. Sex. Super hardcore cunnilungus. Have fun.

Hermione paused by a column in a deserted hallway and lit her wand to check the map in her hand. No one was prowling the halls, which was strange, given that it was only nine o’clock. She shrugged it off, and continued, emerging in Honeydukes within a few minutes. Fleur welcomed her into her home, clad in a silk robe.

“Hermione, get in here! It’s freezing outside.” The blonde ordered, guarding her body with the door. The lioness complied, and followed Fleur into the living room. “Did anyone see you, love?” She asked, seating herself before the fire with a half-finished cup of tea.

“No, darling. No one ever sees.” Hermione assured her. 

Fleur nodded, and patted the space next to her invitingly. The lioness took it, snuggling against her.

“What did you have planned for tonight?” Hermione murmured softly.

Fleur shrugged against her. “Whatever you wanted. However, I did have a few ideas…” She turned to face Hermione, lifting her hand to cup the other’s cheek gently. She ran her thumb over her lower lip, her eyes glazing slightly as she did so.

Hermione felt her breath come short beneath the Veela’s hand. “Oh?” She managed. “What was that?”

“Hmm. Glass of wine, perhaps.” She guided her hand down the side of Hermione’s neck, fighting the urge to smile as she felt her pulse quicken under her fingertips. “Indulge in something… sweet?” Her long fingers traveled back up to tuck a strand of auburn hair into place behind an ear. Hermione shivered.

“Sweet, you said?”

Fleur leaned in and nuzzled her nose against the Gryffindor’s neck. “Yes, I do believe I’m in the mood for sweets.” Her lips brushed over her skin, chuckling when Hermione couldn’t keep her gasp silent. “Unless, of course, you’re craving something different?” She made a move to pull away.

Hermione grasped Fleur’s collar, preventing retreat. “No, sweets sound… most appealing…” She struggled, one hand gripped at Fleur’s shoulder, the other tangled in her hair.

“Appealing, you say?” Fleur murmured, drawing her tongue over Hermione’s skin. The lioness couldn’t answer, instead arched her back against the blonde, holding her tighter.

Fleur moved her hands around to Hermione’s coat, tugging it open before she discarded it to the floor carelessly. The temperature had already increased to stifling, but even with the absence of her coat, Hermione still felt far too hot. She tried to unbutton her blouse, but Fleur swatted her hands away, and replaced them with her own. She paused in her kisses to pull away, watching each button slide away from its hole.

Hermione’s breaths came shallow, her breasts straining against the confines of her blouse. Fleur pulled further away, surprised as she took in the sight of the twin crowns pressed against the cotton, desperate to escape. Her eyes darkened, and a fearal smile tugged at her lips.

“Nothing underneath, Hermione?” Fleur rumbled.

A deep blush took its place on her face, flushing down her throat to what little was exposed of her breasts. Fleur chuckled, gently separating the halves of her shirt with her fingertips, exposing Hermione’s torso to the cool air. She shivered against the chill, while Fleur bit her lip to hold back a groan. The Veela traced her hands over Hermione’s chest, a smile lit her face as the lioness arched into her palms. She massaged her breasts, tracing around their crowns, uncaring of Hermione’s requests.

Fleur’s hands untucked her blouse and slid it from Hermione’s shoulders where it rested on the floor with her coat. Hermione pulled away suddenly, taking Fleur’s wrist and dragging her along into the bedroom. With more force than necessary, she pushed Fleur to the bed, opening her robe and laying claim to her chest without preamble. The Veela’s first instinct was to fight and wrestle Hermione underneath her, but soon lost any thought to rebellion as soft hands forced her own aside, rudely disregarding her bra, and a warm mouth found her nipple.

Hermione hardly paused as she pulled Fleur into a sitting position, forcing the robe from her shoulders. She gave Fleur’s chest a few more teasing nips before taking reign over herself again.

“Get on your hands and knees.” She growled, scraping her nails over Fleur’s shoulders. The Veela complied and rid herself of her bra before she settled on top of the duvet while Hermione knelt behind her, her hair tied into a ponytail. The lamp was lit, washing the room in pale light, allowing her free reign to watch Fleur draw heavy breaths, her shoulders marred by Hermione’s earlier assault. The lioness leaned forward, pressing herself against Fleur’s back, weaving her fingers through her hair and pulling hard enough to bring her a prickle of pain.

Fleur arched under her, panting as pressure built between their bodies. Hermione’s skin was hot on her own, her mouth even hotter where she bit the Veela’s shoulder, drawing her nails over her back, gripping her hips and pulling her closer. It felt as though it had been ages since she’d felt Fleur’s bare skin against her own, and she relished in the contact and the control it gave her. She continued her onslaught, alternating between biting, kissing, and scratching various areas of Fleur’s body.

The Veela writhed beneath her, voicing her pleasure with loud moans, rolling her shoulders back to offer more skin to Hermione’s lips and teeth, hardly feeling any pain as her favorite triggers were sought and exploited. One hand stroked her thigh, dauntlessly traveling higher until Fleur spread her legs wider so Hermione could touch her if she wished. She cupped her sex, feeling her heat and essence though the thin fabric she still wore.

The lioness brought her mouth close to Fleur’s ear. “That ready so soon?” she growled. Fleur shivered under her. “I would imagine so,” she said, tracing one finger along her clit, earning a loud cry from her lover. “Oh, no, Fleur,” she chided, pulling away when the Veela tried to thrust against her hand. “You know my rules.”

“Hermione…” She whimpered.

“Yes, love?” Hermione asked, trailing a fingertip up Fleur’s spine, until she tangled her hand in blonde hair and pulled again.

“I need you,”

“That much is evident,” Hermione chuckled. Without warning, she took her other hand and placed it over Fleur’s sex, pressing against her and retreating away before she could move against her. Another series of whimpers broke Fleur’s lips, while Hermione busied herself with marking her shoulders.

The Veela whimpered, thrusting herself against Hermione, her back arched in near-lordosis.

“You’ll have to be more polite than that.” She whispered at her ear, her tongue flicking out to trace over the shell as she spoke. “Have you forgotten your manners?”

“Please, Hermione, please,” Fleur pleaded, bowing her head between her arms as she lifted her hips higher in desperate hope of Hermione’s compliance.

Hermione chuckled, and slowly peeled the last bit of clothing away from the blonde, tossing the red scrap to the side with some assistance from Fleur. She slowly returned her hand, allowing the Veela to rock against her before she pressed inside. Although she wasn’t deep, barely past her entrance, Fleur growled under her, bucked against her; a wordless threat of taking herself if Hermione refused. So the brunette moved with her, unyielding in her firm desire of forcing her to wait and beg. The Veela’s growls soon became whimpers, her thrusts softened, her voice became low and heavy as she began to plead again. Hermione smiled, and lowered her teeth to her lover’s skin as she pushed a single digit inside her. She watched as the muscles in Fleur’s back flexed, her shoulders rolling and tightening as her hands gripped at the pillows. Her voice sharpened as words failed her, as she clung to Hermione and entered again into the language of thrusts and moans and whimpers.

It wouldn’t take long, Hermione knew. Nearly every inch of skin was flushed, her breathing was labored, her voice echoing through the house, thankfully safeguarded from the neighbors with a series of spells. She knew her lover merely needed a nudge and she’d be lost in orgasm, but that didn’t mean it had to be now, did it?

Hermione leaned forward again, grazing her teeth over an unbruised part of Fleur’s side. The Veela’s own thrusts made it a worthless effort to leave another mark, but it did send her into a more desperate frenzy.

Fleur felt as though every nerve ending had been set ablaze by Hermione, acutely feeling every kiss, bite, and scratch. But the pain did nothing to overshadow the pleasure, driving her into an animalistic state of massive want and need. She thrust herself against Hermione, bringing her deeper each time until she pushed herself to the edge, but couldn’t quite go past.

Hermione smiled, and waited for her to beg. And beg, she did. She plead for more, her hunger and need added weight to her words as they fell from her lips every time she met Hermione’s thrusts.

Help did not come for several long minutes. Instead, Hermione’s free hand gripped the Veela’s hip, her shoulders, her nails marking her skin with expert precision. She soon stopped thrusting altogether, as Fleur managed so beautifully on her own. 

Hermione watched her hips roll to her hand, her shoulders flex as she used every resource to move faster. She reveled in every breathy moan or pant, every request that went unappeased. Finally, Fleur growled lowly, and plunged her own hand between her legs to assist herself. Hermione smiled, and for a moment wished she could see exactly what Fleur was doing, but she could feel it nonetheless as the blonde clung to her. Fleur squeezed her, barely allowing her to move as her muscles clenched, and just before she came undone, Hermione pulled Fleur’s hand away. The Veela resisted, desperately fighting to return to her clit until the brunette took her place there.

A low whine escaped her, and the moment it fell from her lover’s lips, Hermione gently eased pressure onto her clit, and began thrusting again. She was now skilled at keeping her hand exactly where she wanted it to be, even as the Veela moved faster and harder against her, her need and desire impossibly greater than it had been before.

Fleur finally found release, screaming Hermione’s name against a pillow several times before the Gryffindor guided her lie down, wrapping her arms about the other witch. The Veela was panting, her heart pounding in her chest so loudly, she was sure Hermione could hear. Breathless, she struggled to nuzzle closer as Hermione’s hands began to comb through her hair and gently down her back.

“Are you all right, love?” She asked softly.

Fleur nodded against her chest. “Far more than all right. Where did that come from?”

Hermione shrugged under her. “You seem to react nicely when I bite you, I figured you could indulge in it.” She paused to lay a gentle kiss to her lips. “And I fancy the idea of control.”

The Veela laughed. “You just enjoy marking me and making me beg.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Of course, I do; you’re so sexy when you submit and my attention is the only thing that can bring you release. Don’t act like you don’t enjoy marking me, either. We do it for the same reason.”

“To ward off competitors at Hogwarts?” Fleur chuckled.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Like there are any _competitors_ anywhere. For the memory.”

Fleur nodded. “Yes, the memory is a rather nice reason. How many did you leave?”

The lioness strained to see properly, and counted silently. “Right now, about eight, but only three will last. I must do better next time.”

Fleur murmured her agreement. “I think I’ll stop buying lingerie to impress you, since you hardly take a moment to stop and appreciate it.”

“You wore lingerie?” Hermione asked, surprised.

“I did. Matching set. Dreadfully uncomfortable, but I thought you might like it.”

Hermione frowned. “I’m sorry you were uncomfortable, but do I appreciate the thought and effort. However, I daresay you look far better in nothing at all.”

Fleur chuckled again and kissed Hermione’s lips gently. “I could say the same about you, which brings a question to mind. Why are you still half-dressed?”

“I’ll get right on that,” Hermione laughed, shimmying out of her jeans and underwear. She tossed the garments to the floor carelessly, drawing Fleur into her arms again.

While Fleur was warmly held, her hands set to stroking Hermione gently, over her ribcage and hips, teasing her inner thighs.

“Would you care for anything special?” The Veela asked softly.

“Special…” Hermione murmured. “A little something new might be interesting.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Turn off the light,” Hermione requested, moving away from the Veela so she could do so. The room went dark, and Fleur settled again, waiting for Hermione’s next move. She felt her lover shift, straddling her chest suddenly. Fleur allowed her hands to roam, mapping the exact location of Hermione where she hovered over her again, and soon realized Hermione’s intent with a soft chuckle. Trepidation was obvious in her tremors, and to encourage her, the Veela pulled herself up as far as she could to plant gentle kisses over Hermione’s abdomen. Her hands found their way to Hermione’s back, scratching her gently before they dropped lower to cup her arse, soothing her forward until her knees rested on either side of the Veela’s head.

Fleur exhaled gently over Hermione’s sex, smiling when she shivered. Reaching up with her hands again, she stroked Hermione’s back gently with one, and held Hermione’s hand with the other. The moment her tongue touched her sex, Hermione squeezed Fleur’s hand with her own, moaning softly. Fleur repeated her action, this time in a broader, stronger motion, humming against her as her senses overloaded with Hermione. Her hips rolled forward, her breaths grew shorter as she commanded Fleur to be faster. She felt her laugh more than she heard it, and the Veela did not humor her request.

She whimpered softly, rolling her hips harder against her mouth, her free hand pressed flat against the wall. Fleur suddenly lashed out once with her tongue, earning a surprised cry from Hermione, and a loud irritated whimper followed as she returned to circling gently with the tip of her tongue again. Hermione groaned, desperate for her to return again, but Fleur only chose to remove her mouth entirely.

“Have you forgotten _your_ manners, Hermione?” She rumbled, a teasing edge in her voice.

“Please, Fleur, I—” She was rewarded with another strong lash, any word falling to silence with it. She continued for a few strokes, both hands now resting on the other’s hips above her as her mouth leisurely pleasured her lover with gentle licks and soft kisses. Hermione’s thighs were trembling from the effort to hold herself steady, one hand now stroked the Veela’s cheek and tangled in her hair to convey her gratitude to her lover. Despite her growing desire and climb to orgasm, she was thoroughly enjoying Fleur’s current attention, and found she rather fancied this torment of slow pleasure.

Fleur drew her tongue in random patterns, using several differing speeds, although they were all slow. She drank Hermione in, humming as she brought her tongue to her opening, and the woman over her bucked against her, startling herself as a loud moan broke her lips. She was soaked, her essence covered Fleur’s lips and chin, but the Veela could not bring herself to care. She adored the way her lover tasted, how it overpowered any other sense and the pride that came with the thought of _this is what I do to her._

For a moment, she returned to Hermione’s clit, but found she couldn’t resist the temptation of returning to the source of her. Her hands moved to the brunette’s arse again, and lifted her higher, granting more room for her exploration. With a small shudder, she gently pressed her tongue inside Hermione, who responded with a loud moan and a hard tug on her hair. The Veela whimpered as her mouth flooded with Hermione, as her tongue was greeted by a heat unmatched by any other. Her lover thrust harder against her, the Veela’s name tumbling from her lips each time. Fleur pressed deeper, angling her head this way and that, desperate to find the best position for both Hermione’s pleasure and her neck.

She pulled away again, and teased the brunette’s clit with her lips and tongue, made so hot by Hermione’s sex, she couldn’t hold any longer.

The Veela knew she wouldn’t last long, as she felt every muscle tightening around her and under her hands, and she couldn’t bring herself to tease Hermione further despite her devilish enjoyment. She continued, boldly pressing against every inch of Hermione’s sex, relishing in her taste and the sounds she was making above her.

The hand on her back held her tightly, nails scratching as hard as they could despite their length, sending trails of heat down Hermione’s back. She kept thrusting against Fleur, so near climax her entire body was flexed for it. The moment orgasm took her, Fleur thrust her tongue inside her again, another wave of essence flooding her mouth. She took it greedily, barely slowing in her ministrations. Before Hermione’s first screams had died, more burst from her lips and her hips kept up their desperate thrusts. She released Fleur’s hand, and pressed both hands against the wall in effort to keep herself upright as a second orgasm hit and as she rode it out on Fleur’s tongue. It took all her willpower to move away from her current position before her muscles failed her.

Fleur gently led her to lay down flat upon her back, before diving between her legs again. Hermione, for all she could do, whimpered softly as the Veela’s tongue gently lapped at her sex, apparently unfinished with her. She did not seem to harbor any desire to bring her to orgasm again, or to be in any rush, but simply entranced with her, and desperate to collect any stray drop of essence she’d missed before.

After several long minutes, she returned to Hermione’s side and wiped her mouth clean. She pressed her heated lips to Hermione’s temple as she snuggle closer, and with every ounce of willpower left, Hermione nudged her with her nose until the Veela met her own lips. She begged entrance as she traced Fleur’s lower lip with her tongue, and shivered as she was admitted, as she tasted herself in Fleur’s mouth.

She was reluctant to pull away, but Fleur did not give her an option as she rested her cheek against Hermione’s forehead with a soft sigh of contentment.

“Wow…” Hermione finally managed.

Fleur chuckled. “I rather enjoyed that, myself,” she said smartly.

“If I could, I’d swat you.”

“After all the pleasure I gave you?” Fleur chided with a smile. “That wouldn’t be very polite, Hermione.”

“You enjoyed it just as much as I, perhaps even more so.” She muttered, pressing a kiss to Fleur’s mouth again.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to enjoy that as much as you do,” Fleur murmured. “Tasting yourself, I mean.”

Hermione managed to lift one shoulder. “I do. I like the way we taste together and knowing that the experience was good for you, too.”

“I always enjoy you, love,” she returned with a short laugh.

Hermione couldn’t respond, so she settled for a happy hum of contentment. Fleur sighed, and curled around Hermione, covering her as best she could with a cool sheet.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Hermione,” she murmured. Hermione returned with an incoherent mumble, and fell asleep again her mate’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was rather short, I know, but it was kind of impromptu to begin with. Anyway, I tried to make this a little more explicit, and hopefully I didn't disappoint. More will come, I promise! In any case, Fleur will have her moment of control and dominance. As always, comments, kudos, and questions are always welcome and encouraged. Hope you all liked it.   
> Much love,   
> RC  
> PS  
> I beta everything myself, so if something's fucked up, I apologize.


	15. Taunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So back to plot. Couldn't wait to get it going again. I may be gone for a while after this, it's a rather looong chapter, so enjoy! Feedback is always welcome!  
> Much love,  
> RC

The following Monday morning came with the publication of Harry’s interview in _The Quibbler._ Along with it came several letters of encouragement and belief, as well as scorn and disheartening words. Nonetheless, word was out all the same, and gaining support. Hermione was pleased, but not surprised, to see that Rita had upheld her promise.

Luna was pleased as well, happy to see her father’s magazine had gained popularity and that Harry’s story was finally coming to light. Of course, it didn’t take long before Professor Umbridge’s attention was drawn to the letters as though they were swarming flies.

“What is going on here?” she asked sweetly as she stood behind the lioness. She took a moment to study the letters, well aware of Harry’s lack of correspondents, while the majority of the school body was watching the proceedings avidly. “Why have you gotten all of these letters, Mr. Potter?”

“Is that a crime now?” Fred said loudly. “Getting mail?”

Umbridge’s eyes snapped to him. “Careful, Mr. Weasley, or I shall have to put you in detention.” She warned, dragging her eyes back to Harry. “Well, Mr. Potter?”

“People have written to me because I gave an interview,” Harry returned, meeting her gaze boldly. “About what happened last June.”

“An interview?” Umbridge repeated, her voice a few pitches higher than it had been before. “What do you mean?”

“I mean a reporter asked me questions, and I answered them.” Harry said resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Here—” With that, he thrust the magazine into her hands. Her pale, doughy face turned an ugly, patchy violet.

“When did you do this?” She asked, a tremor in her voice.

“Last Hogsmeade weekend,”

She looked at him, incandescent with rage, the magazine shaking in her stubby fingers. “There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you, Mr. Potter,” She whispered. “How dare… how could…” She paused to take a deep breath. “I have tried again and again to teach you not to tell lies. The message, apparently, has _not sunk in._ Fifty points from Gryffindor, and another week’s worth of detentions. And _you,_ ” she sneered, her eyes roving towards Hermione. “You had something to do with this, I’m sure!”

“Perhaps,” Hermione returned softly. “Though my name will not be found in that magazine, I’m sure you’ll hold me accountable nonetheless. Another decree is possible, now, isn’t it? Ban all Mudbloods from doing anything at all if not observed intently by you? There are more of us than you’d care to imagine, Professor; not that you’re inapt to the challenge, of course.”

Umbridge stared speechless at Hermione for several long minutes, her face changing very interesting shades of several colors before she, her mouth agape, turned and stalked away, clutching _The Quibbler_ in her hands, nearly every set of eyes following her.

He turned to look at Hermione, who looked far too pleased with herself.

“Tell me you thought this through,” he said, looking at her imploringly.

“Of course I have. I’m dreadfully sorry you have detention, Harry, but trust me, I will protect you. I’ve made my own murtlap concoction, and added a few things. Fleur gave me an alchemy set for Christmas, and I’ve put it to good use. Tonight, before your detention, soak your hand in it. You won’t feel a thing and it’ll heal quite nicely. Fleur can also help on that front, Harry, if you’d like her to. Won’t even scar.”

Harry looked confused, but nodded solemnly, and reached for an apple.

Hermione’s head suddenly snapped up. The scent of citrus was strong in her nose, too sharp to be any degree of ripe. Her nostrils flared to catch more of the scent, and her eyes deftly scanned the room to see that Snape was just peeling an orange, and when he bit into it, made a most amusing face. The lioness chuckled softly to herself, and joined Harry and Ron in their pursuit to get to class early to cram for a quiz.

 

By second period, enormous signs had been put up all over the school, not just on House notice boards, but in corridors and classrooms too. The twenty-seventh decree now promised to expel any student caught in the possession of a copy of _The Quibbler._

Hermione beamed, entirely pleased while she drew questions and strange looks from the other two Gryffindors at her side.

“What exactly are you so happy about?” Harry asked her.

“If she could have done one thing to make absolutely sure that every single person in this school will read your interview, it was banning it!” She returned in a hushed voice. Sure enough, although a corner of _The Quibbler_ was never seen, students were whispering together in groups, quoting from the interview to each other by the end of the day.

Even in the girls’ toilets, Hermione had been asked a million questions.

“I think they believe you, Harry, I think you’ve finally got them convinced!” She said as she reported the questioning to him later.

As they silently celebrated their victory, Umbridge seemed set on redeeming herself, demanding that a student turn out their pockets and bags every few steps she took, very obviously looking for any sign of the condemned magazine.

The teachers, of course, were forbidden to speak of it, due to the twenty-sixth decree, but a few made very clear signs of approval and support to Harry without infringing on the rule. Professor Sprout awarded Gryffindor twenty points when Harry passed her a watering pail; a beaming Professor Flitwick pressed a box of squeaking sugar mice into his hands at the end of Charms; and even Professor Trelawney, who’d broken down in hysterical sobs, told the class that Harry would not die a violent death, but would live to a ripe old age, become Minister of Magic, and have twelve children. Cho even offered an apology and a kiss on the cheek. Seamus sent a copy of _The Quibbler_ to his mother, and told him that he believed him.

Best of all, Crabbe, Goyle, and Malfoy glared at the three Gryffindors more heatedly than ever before, for each of their fathers had been named Death Eaters in the interview and, with the decree forbidding them to admit they’d read the article, were forced into silence.

Later at dinner, Luna reported that no copy of _The Quibbler_ had ever sold out faster.

“Dad’s reprinting!” She said gleefully, joining them at the Gryffindor table. “He can’t believe it, he says people seem even more interested in this than the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks!”

 

 

When Harry returned to the Common Room, his hand weeping blood, he was welcomed as a hero. Fred and George had put an Enlargement Charm on the front cover of _The Quibbler,_ so that his large face watched the proceedings while occasionally shouting obscene things about Umbridge and the Ministry. Hermione’s murtlap brew proved very useful, and closed with a simple healing spell without much fuss after Harry’s standing ovation had calmed by a degree, and he was allowed to sit down long enough for her to cast the spell.

Hermione had first been amused by the sentiment, but found that it made concentrating rather hard, so she soon retired to her quarters to continue studying as well as writing back and forth to Fleur.

The next morning, Harry reported a very clear, very startling dream from the night before to Hermione. They stood in their usual corner of the courtyard during break, where the lioness focused her attention away from the boys, staring very intently in the direction of Hogsmeade. While her stare was intense, her mind was vividly painting brilliant pictures as Harry recounted the dream, connections were rapidly made, conclusions drawn.

Harry had been Voldemort. He had not been the snake this time, but Voldemort his very self. Rookwood, apparently the wizard who’d reported a wrongdoing to him, was sent to retrieve another named Avery, who Harry was sure had been severely punished.

“He said Bode would have known he couldn’t have done it, that’s why he fought against Malfoy’s Imperious Curse. He knew it was bewitched or something.”

“That’s why they killed him,” Hermione murmured, never breaking her stare.

“What are you talking about?” Ron asked.

“Bode. He was in the same ward as Neville’s parents,” she said softly. “He tried to steal the weapon, and something funny happened to him. There must have been defensive spells on it, or around it, perhaps, to keep people from touching it. That’s why he ended up in St. Mungo’s, his brain had been addled and he couldn’t talk. But the Healer told us he was improving. And there’s no way they could have allowed that, he would have told the Ministry everything after he got his voice back. So they sent him that plant for Christmas, and bewitched it to kill him. It would have been easy for Lucius Malfoy to put the curse on him, since he seems to always be lurking around the Ministry.”

“He was even hanging around on the day of my hearing,” Harry murmured. “Actually, he was in the Department of Mysteries! Your dad said he was probably trying to sneak down and find out what happened at my hearing, but what it—” 

“Sturgis,” Hermione gasped, her eyes widening so quickly her stare broke as she looked between the other two.

“What?” Ron asked.

“Sturgis Podmore was arrested for trying to get though a locked door. Lucius Malfoy got him too. I bet he did it the day he saw you there, Harry. Sturgis had Moody’s Invisibility Cloak didn’t he? So what if he was standing guard by the door, invisible, and Malfoy heard him move or guessed that he was there. So when Sturgis next had an opportunity—probably when it was his turn to guard again—he tried to get into the department to steal the weapon for Voldemort—honestly, Ron, get a grip—but he got caught and sent to Azkaban…” She fixed Harry in her gaze. “And now Rookwood’s told Voldemort how to get the weapon?”

Harry shook his head. “I didn’t hear the whole conversation, but that’s what it sounded like. Rookwood used to work there… Maybe Voldemort will send him to do it?”

Hermione nodded, and looked back towards Hogsmeade. “Even if this information has been helpful, it’s still very dangerous, Harry,” She murmured. “Please, put as much effort as you can into your Occlumency lessons. I know it’s hard, but with the threat posed…” The bell tolled from its tower, and students began trickling back inside. “Please be careful.” She reached out and squeezed his hand gently. He offered her a small, unconvincing smile, but nodded all the same.

 Harry’s week did not improve as it wore on, despite the growing support. People were talking about Gryffindor’s horrible performance against Hufflepuff whenever they couldn’t talk about the escaped Death Eaters, and the Slytherins were singing “Weasley Is Our King” so loudly and frequently, Flitch had banned it from the corridors out of sheer irritation.

It was during Harry’s next Occlumency lesson that Dumbledore made a display of his authority. Professor Trelawney was sobbing in the entrance hall, her appearance disheveled and her expression a mix of horror and anger. Her things were gathered around her haphazardly, as if they had been thrown. Hearing her sobs and screams, most of the occupants of the Great Hall spilled out in to the entrance hall, Hermione at the head of the wave.

“NO!” Trelawney wailed. “NO! This cannot be happening… it cannot… I refuse to believe it!”

“You didn’t realize this was coming?” a high pitched, girly voice asked. “Incapable though you are of predicting even tomorrow’s weather, you must surely have realized that your pitiful performance during my inspections, and lack of any improvement would make it inevitable you would be sacked?”

“You can’t! I’ve been h-here sixteen years! Hogwarts is m-my h-home!”

“ _Was_ your home.” Umbridge corrected. “Until an hour ago when the Minister of Magic countersigned the order for your dismissal. Now kindly remove yourself from this hall. You’re embarrassing us.”

McGonagall forced her way through the throngs of students, and knelt down by the Divinations professor. “There, there, Sibyll… Calm down… You are not going to have to leave Hogwarts…”

“Oh really Professor McGonagall?” Umbridge demanded. Hermione had to choke down the urge to hex her. “And your authority for that statement is…?”

“That would be mine,” A deep voice thundered. The oak doors had swung open, admitting the aged sorcerer.

“Yours, Professor Dumbledore?” Umbridge asked, with a chuckle. “I’m afraid you do not understand the position. I have here—” She pulled a parchment from her robes. “an Order of Dismissal signed by myself and the Minister of Magic. Under the terms of Educational Decree Number Twenty-three, the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts has the power to inspect, place upon probation, and sack any teacher she—that is to say I—feel is not performing up to the standard required by the Ministry of Magic. I have decided that Professor Trelawney is not up to scratch. I have dismissed her.”

Dumbledore smiled serenely at her. He looked down at Professor Trelawney and patted her shoulder.

“You are quite right, Professor Umbridge. As High Inquisitor you have every right to dismiss my teachers. You do not, however, have the authority to send them away from the castle. I’m afraid that the power to do that still resides with the headmaster, and it is my wish that Professor Trelawney continue to live at Hogwarts. With that said, Professor McGonagall, would you please escort Professor Trelawney back upstairs?”

McGonagall nodded and dragged her to her feet, picking up her suitcase before she led her past Umbridge, and up the stairs.

“And what,” Umbridge seethed. “Will you do with her once I appoint a new Divination teacher who needs her lodgings?”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem.” Dumbledore said pleasantly. “You see, I have already found a new Divination teacher, and he will prefer ground-floor lodgings.”

“You’ve found?” Umbridge repeated shrilly. “ _You’ve_ found? Might I remind you, Dumbledore, that under Educational Decree Number Twenty-two—”

 “—the Ministry has the right to appoint a suitable candidate if—and only if—the headmaster is unable to find one. And I am happy to say that on this occasion, I have succeeded. May I introduce you?” He turned to the open doors of the entry hall, through which night mist was now drifting.

Hermione had to strain her ears, but a steady footfall could be detected. A moment later, she heard the sound of hooves on the hard surface of stone. She drew a deep breath, and smelled the forest, accompanied by the distinct scent of horses. There was a shocked murmur as those nearest to the door moved hastily further away to make room for the newcomer. White-blonde hair, incredibly blue eyes first peeked through the door, followed by a bare torso, followed again by the lean body of a palomino horse. Harry’s eyes widened in recognition.

“This is Firenze,” Dumbledore said happily to a thunderstruck Umbridge. “I think you’ll find him quite suitable.”

 

Divination had taken quite a change with Firenze in charge. Harry found that he really enjoyed his lessons, even though they seemed a bit too otherworldly, as Firenze had said humans could never truly learn how to read stars as centaurs could. They discussed the different methods of star-reading, and Hermione readily entered the conversation, since her own skills had improved enormously with Fleur’s help as well as André’s journal, despite having dropped the class that year in exchanged for Arithmancy.

Finals were well on their way, and the stress was mounting. The only solace to be found was in the D.A. meetings that were now lessening with nearing of exams. Since the publishing of Harry’s interview, even more members had shown up, even a few Slytherins who were quickly asked to sign their names to the parchment bearing the title, ‘DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY.’ These newcomers were accepted with hesitance, but swore their allegiance wholeheartedly and soon became strong and trusted members.

It was during one of these meetings that Cho finally managed a Patronus under Hermione’s assistance. After seeing that the Ravenclaw had mastered the spell, the lioness flicked her wand for the third time, finally receiving a message from Fleur.

“She won’t be coming tonight, Harry,” Hermione called. “Something’s come up at Gringott’s, it’ll be a long night for her. She wanted me to send her apologies to you,”

Harry looked dismayed, but shrugged his shoulders. “Tell her it’s quite all right, you’re doing a fine job of teaching her pupils,” he laughed. She smiled back at him, very pleased he’d taken on the challenge, for this was the only place he smiled anymore. She hastily wrote a reply and sent it to her lover, leaping back into duels with gusto.

The door opened and closed, and the room fell silent. Harry looked up to see who it was, and soon felt a tugging at his trousers.

“Hi, Dobby! What are you—what’s wrong?”

The elf’s eyes were wide with terror and filled with tears. “Harry Potter, sir,” he squeaked. “Harry Potter, sir…” he began trembling from head to toe. “Dobby has come to warn… but the house-elves had been warned not to tell…” He ran headfirst into the wall; Harry, who had some experience in Dobby’s habits of self-punishment, managed to seize him before he hurt himself.

“What happened, Dobby?”

“Harry Potter, she… she… she…”

“Dobby, who’s ‘she’?”

He looked up at Harry through huge eyes, and mouthed a single word.

“Umbridge?” Harry ask, horrified. Dobby nodded and let out a wail. “Does she know? Is she coming?”

Dobby let out a howl. “Yes, Harry Potter, yes!”

Harry straightened, and looked at the others. “Go! What are you waiting for, run!” Hermione was the last to leave, other than Harry. She knew exactly how fast her legs could carry her and exactly how long she could go without stopping. The Veela’s energy thrashed in her blood, and yearned to break free.

“Come on, Harry grab him!” She pushed at the backs of other students, caution be damned, as they flooded from the only exit. Harry heeded her, and picked up Dobby, commanding him to lie about his warning and to stop trying to hurt himself. Dobby thanked him, and raced back to the kitchens upon release.

As Dobby departed, Hermione could not hold back any longer. She sprinted through the corridors, gracefully leaping over obstacles, maneuvering around corners, her heart beating erratically as she took the long way to the Common Room to avoid the other students. As a result of less traffic and her stamina, she was one of the first to reach it, followed closely by a wave of Gryffindors.

“Go into your rooms, change into nightclothes, wet your hair as if you’ve showered, control your breathing, do anything you possibly can to make it look like you weren’t just stampeding through the bloody corridors! Now!” she bellowed, her voice shaking the room. She sprinted into her own room and changed into her usual running clothes, as she preferred to run at the current time of evening anyway, the habit well known. She returned to the Common Room where it was nearly deserted, and as it filled again, her instructions carried out beautifully, the other Gryffindors looked to her.

“What now?” a small voice asked. Other variations of the same question were offered. She looked around her. Every set of eyes studied, asked, waited. She realized, with a start, that they looked to her as their leader, and waited for another command.

“Where’s Harry?” She asked suddenly. No one could answer. A few others reported missing classmates.

“Not everyone made it…” she sighed. Unable to sit, she paced, nearly trotting as she had not yet calmed. “She’s going to find that paper, and if Dumbledore and Harry don’t figure out some way to cover for us, she’ll punish us. All of us.” She announced, pausing in her movements. “Knowing this could happen, I’ve made previous preparations. Wait here, I’ll be back.” She sprinted up the staircase to her quarters, where she retrieved an armload of murtlap-filled jars. She returned to the Common Room, and placed them out on the floor. With a swish of her wand, she multiplied a single jar into several dozen.

“Soak your writing hands in that essence; I’ve charmed it so you won’t feel the pain and so you won’t lose as much blood—”

“How is she punishing us?! Why will there be blood?” A first year squeaked. Hermione smiled sadly at him and her voice softened.

“Umbridge’s preferred disciplinary method and mindset is far from orthodox. Be a brave little lion; I won’t let it hurt.” She looked back to the others, and addressed them as a whole, her voice growing. “In the unlikely event that we _aren’t_ punished for what transpired tonight, feel free to use the solution should you get detention yourself; and for the love of God, get some to any others who are in detention as well. Not only will it keep the pain away, it will also allow the wound to heal faster and without scarring. At the moment, the other houses won’t be so lucky to indulge in this luxury, but we must get it to them one way or another. If any of you would be willing to get a few jars to each, please do so, and please be sly about it.” Several hands raised.

“Good, now do what you can to ensure their safe travel and instructions. Luna Lovegood knows how to multiply objects and she can do so very well; in the event that I am compromised, ask her to, if necessary. Soak up while we have time; it won’t take long, just a few minutes, but we need to be ready for when she arrives, if she does.” She was obeyed without hesitation. Students retired to their rooms, alternating between soaking their hands and sorting out proper hiding places for their jars, as well as the ones that would be given to their comrades in the other houses.

Fred and George both clapped her back. “Good job, Granger,” Fred laughed.

“Veela’s done a number on you, hasn’t she? I rather like the new Hermione,”

“Bossy, but not irritating,”

“Intelligent _and_ refreshing.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well thank you, I suppose.”

“Never thought you’d take up the leadership role, but you did great,” George said.

“But, we do have something planned for Toad. Can I interest you in—”

“No, Fred. I’m not assisting the two of you with anything, as much as I may enjoy it. How are you two so calm right now? Joking, even?”

George shrugged. “We’re used to trouble,”

“And detention,”

“Doesn’t scare us anymore.”

Hermione sighed. “But we don’t know where Harry is… or how she found out…”

 

 

Harry, as it turned out, had in fact been captured, and brought into Dumbledore’s office. The office was full of people. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking rather serene, Professor McGonagall stood rigidly to his right, her face extremely tense. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, was rocking back and forth on his toes beside the fire, looking incredibly pleased with the situation. Kingsley Shacklebolt and a tough-looking wizard Harry did not recognize with short, wiry hair were positioned on either side of the door like guards, and the freckled, bespectacled form of Percy Weasley hovered excitedly beside the wall, a quill and a heavy scroll of parchment in his hands, apparently poised to take notes.

The portraits of previous headmasters did not feign sleep, but watched with great interest, alert and serious. Cornelius Fudge was looking at Harry with an air of vicious satisfaction about him.

“Well,” he said. “Well, well, well…”

“He was heading back to the Gryffindor Tower,” Umbridge chirped. “The Malfoy boy cornered him.”

“He did, did he? I must remember to tell Lucius. Well, Potter, I expect you know why you are here?”

Harry’s first response was to respond with a defiant ‘yes,’ but his mouth formed a different word when he caught sight of Dumbledore’s face. The headmaster was not looking directly at Harry, but on a point just above his shoulder, and as Harry stared at him, he shook his head a fraction of an inch to each side.

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No.” Harry repeated.

“You _don’t_ know why you’re here?”

“No, I don’t.”

Fudge looked incredulously from Harry to Umbridge; Harry took advantage of this inattention to sneak a glance at Dumbledore, who gave the tiniest of nods, and the shadow of a wink.

“So you have no idea,” Fudge said, his voice sagging with sarcasm, “why Professor Umbridge has brought you into this office? You are not aware that you have broken any school rules?”

“School rules?” Harry asked. “No.”

“Or Ministry Decrees?” Fudge amended angrily.

“Not that I’m aware of,” His heartbeat was hammering away in his chest. It was almost worth watching Fudge’s blood pressure rise, but he was so afraid he wouldn’t get away with the lies he was telling. If someone had tipped off Umbridge about the D.A., then he, the leader, might as well be packing his trunk right now.

“So it’s news to you,” Fudge growled. “That an illegal student organization has been discovered within this school?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I think, Minister,” said Umbridge silkily, “We might make better progress if I fetch our informant.”

“Yes, yes, do.” Fudge nodded, never taking his eyes off Harry. “There’s nothing like a good witness, is there, Dumbledore?”

“Nothing at all, Cornelius,” Dumbledore returned.

A few minutes later, the door opened again, and Umbridge brought in Cho’s curly-haired friend Marietta, who was holding her face in her hands.

“Don’t be scared, dear, don’t be frightened,” Umbridge crooned, patting her back. “It’s quite all right, you’ve done the right thing. The minister is very pleased with you. He’ll be telling your mother what a good girl you’ve been. Marietta’s mother, Minister,” she said, looking to Fudge, “Is Madam Edgecombe from the Department of Magical Transportation. Floo Network office—she’s been helping us police the Hogwarts fires, you know.”

“Jolly good, jolly good! Well, come now, dear, look up, don’t be shy, let’s hear what you’ve got to—galloping gargoyles!”

As Marietta raised her head, Fudge jumped away from her, so violently, he very nearly fell into the fire. He cursed and stamped on the hem of his cloak where it had begun to smoke, and Marietta gave a wail and pulled the neck of her robes right up to her eyes, but not before the whole room had seen that her face was horribly disfigured by a series of close-set purple pustules that had spread out across her nose and cheeks to form the word “SNEAK.”

Harry nearly lost his composure in praise of Hermione’s charm skills.

“Never mind the spots for now, dear,” Umbridge said impatiently. “Just take your robes away from your mouth and tell the Minister—”

But Marietta gave another muffled wail and shook her head frantically.

“Oh, very well, you silly girl, _I’ll_ tell him.” Snapped Umbridge. “Well, Minister, Miss Edgecombe here came to my office shortly after dinner this evening and told me she had something to tell me. She said that if I proceeded to a secret room on the seventh floor, sometimes known as the Room of Requirement, I would find out something to my advantage. I questioned her further and she admitted that there was to me some kind of meeting there. Unfortunately, at that point this hex,” She cast a gesture at her face, “came into operation and upon catching sight of herself in my mirror, the girl became too distressed to tell me any more.”

“Well, now,” Fudge said, “It is very brave of you, my dear, coming to tell Professor Umbridge, you did exactly the right thing. Now, will you tell me what happened at this meeting? What was its purpose? Who was there?”

But Marietta refused to speak. She only looked between Fudge and Umbridge with wide, terrified eyes.

“Haven’t we got a counterjinx for this?” Fudge asked Umbridge. “So she can speak freely?”

“I have not yet managed to find one,” Umbridge admitted grudgingly, and Harry felt his pride in Hermione’s spell work swell even further. “But it doesn’t matter if she won’t speak, I can take the story up from there.

“You will remember, Minister, that I sent you a report back in October that Potter had met a number of fellow students in the Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade—”

“And what is your evidence for that?” McGonagall cut in.

“I have testimony from Willy Widdershins, Minerva, who happened to be in the bar at that time. He was heavily bandaged, it is true, but his hearing was quite unimpaired,” Umbridge said smugly. “He heard every word Potter said, as well as an unknown blonde witch, whom I believe to be Fleur Delacour—but unfortunately I have no evidence at this time—and hastened straight to the school to report to me—”

Harry felt his heart drop into his stomach, but silently prayed to every god that Fleur was truly unknown. He hoped with every fiber of his being that Hermione’s acceptance had had enough of an impact on her thrall to keep attention away from her, rather than draw it to her, for if she was found out by Umbridge, he could only imagine the slander she would face, not to mention Hermione’s wrath.

McGonagall cut in again before he could think of any other terrible things. “As if Fleur’s a criminal! Or a threat, even! What importance does she have to you, of all people? And is _that_ why Willy wasn’t prosecuted for setting up all those regurgitating toilets? What an interesting insight into our justice system!”

“Blatant corruption!” A portrait roared behind Dumbledore’s desk. “The Ministry did not cut deals with petty criminals in my day, no sir, they did not!”

“Thank you, Fortescue, that will do,” Dumbledore murmured.

“The purpose of Potter’s meeting with these students,” Umbridge continued, ignoring McGonagall. “Was to persuade them to join an illegal society, whose aim was to learn spells and curses the Ministry had decided are inappropriate for school-age—”

“I think you’ll find you’re wrong there, Dolores,” said Dumbledore quietly, peering at her over his half-moon spectacles.

Harry stared at him in shock. How could he possibly talk himself out of this corner? If Willy had heard every word he’d spoken, there surely was no escape.

“Oho!” Said Fudge, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Yes, do let’s hear the latest cock-and-bull story designed to pull Potter out of trouble! Go on then, Dumbledore, go on—Willy Widdershins was lying, was he? Or was it Potter’s identical twin in the Hog’s Head that day? Or is it the usual simple explanation involving the reversal of time, a dead man coming back to life, and a couple of invisible dementors?”

Percy barked a hearty laugh. “Oh, very good, Minister, very good!” Harry had to choke down the urge to kick him. But then he saw that Dumbledore was smiling a small smile, too.

“Cornelius, I do not deny—and nor, I am sure, does Harry—that he was in the Hog’s Head that day, nor that he was trying to recruit students to join a Defense Against the Dark Arts group. I am merely pointing out that Dolores is quite wrong to suggest that such a group was, at that time, illegal. If you remember, the Ministry decree banning all student societies was not put into effect until two days after Harry’s Hogsmeade meeting, so he was not breaking any rules in the Hog’s Head at all.”

Percy looked as though he had been struck in the face by something very heavy. Fudge remained motionless in mid-bounce, his mouth hanging open.

Umbridge recovered first.

“That’s all very fine, Headmaster,” she said sweetly, showing off her pointed teeth. “But we are now nearly six months on from the introduction of Educational Decree Number Twenty-four. If the first meeting was not illegal, all that have happened since most certainly are.”

“Well,” said Dumbledore, surveying her with polite interest over his interlock fingers. “They certainly _would_ be, if they _had_ continued after the decree came into effect. Do you have any evidence that these meetings continued?”

As Dumbledore spoke, Harry heard a rustle behind him and rather thought that Kingsley whispered something. He could have sworn too that he felt something brush against his side, a gentle something like a draft or bird wings, but when he looked he saw nothing there.

“Evidence?” Repeated Umbridge with a horrible smirk. “Have you not been listening, Dumbledore? Why do you think Miss Edgecombe is here?”

“Oh, can she tell us about six months’ worth of meetings?” said Dumbledore, raising his eyebrows. “I was under the impression that she was merely reporting a meeting tonight.”

“Miss Edgecombe,” said Umbridge at once. “Tell us how long these meetings have been going on, dear. You can simply nod or shake your head, I’m sure that won’t make the spots worse. Have they been happening over the last six months?”

Harry felt his heart land in his stomach again. Certainly this was the inevitable dead-end, when everything would be laid bare and escape impossible.

“Just nod or shake your head, dear,” Umbridge coaxed softly. “Come on, now, that won’t activate the jinx any further…”

Everyone in the room was gazing at the top of Marietta’s face. Only her eyes were visible between the pulled up robes and her curly fringe. Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but her eyes looked oddly blank. Then, to Harry’s amazement, she shook her head.

Umbridge looked quickly at Fudge then back at Marietta.

“I don’t think you understood the question, dear. I’m asking whether you’ve been going to these meetings for the past six months? You have, haven’t you?”

Again, Marietta shook her head.

“What do you mean by shaking your head, dear?” Umbridge asked in a testy voice.

“I would have thought her meaning was quite clear,” McGonagall said harshly. “There have been no secret meetings for the past six months. Is that correct, Miss Edgecombe?”

Marietta nodded.

“But there was a meeting tonight!” Umbridge said furiously. “There was a meeting, Miss Edgecombe, you told me about it, in the Room of Requirement! And Potter was the leader, was he not, Potter organized it, Potter— _why are you shaking your head, girl?”_

“Usually when a person shakes their head,” McGonagall said coldly. “They mean ‘no.’ So, unless Miss Edgecombe is using a form of language yet unknown to humans—”

Umbridge seized Marietta, pulled her around to face her, and began shaking her very hard. A split second later, Dumbledore was on his feet, his wand drawn. Kingsley advanced as well, and Umbridge leapt away from Marietta, waving her hands in the air as though she’d been burned.

“I cannot allow you to assault my students, Dolores.” Dumbledore growled, looking very angry.

“You want to calm yourself, Madam Umbridge.” Said Kingsley in his deep, slow voice. “You don’t want to get yourself into trouble now.”

“No,” said Umbridge breathlessly, glancing up at the towering figure of Kingsley. “I mean, yes—you’re right, Shacklebolt—I—I—I forgot myself.”

Marietta was standing exactly where Umbridge released her. She seemed neither perturbed by Umbridge’s sudden attack, nor relieved by her release. She was still clutching her robes up to her oddly blank eyes, staring straight ahead of her. A sudden suspicion connected to Kingsley’s whisper and the thing that he had felt shoot past him sprang into Harry’s mind.

“Dolores,” Fudge said, with the air of someone trying to settle something once and for all. “The meeting tonight—the one we know definitely happened—”

“Yes,” said Umbridge, pulling herself together. “Well, Miss Edgecombe tipped me off and I proceeded at once to the seventh floor, accompanied by certain _trustworthy_ students, so as to catch those in the meeting red-handed. It appears that they were forewarned of my arrival, however, because they were running in every direction before I even arrived at the seventh floor. It does not matter, however. I have all of their names here, Miss Parkinson ran into the Room of Requirement for me to see if they had left anything behind… We needed evidence and the room provided…”

And to Harry’s horror, she pulled from her pocket the list of names that had been pinned on the Room of Requirement’s wall and handed it to Fudge.

“The moment I saw Potter’s name on the list, I knew what we were dealing with.” She said softly.

“Excellent,” said Fudge, a smile spreading across his face. “Excellent, Dolores. And… by thunder…”

He looked up at Dumbledore, who was still standing beside Marietta, his wand held loosely in his hand.

“See what they’ve named themselves?” Fudge said quietly. _“Dumbledore’s Army.”_

Dumbledore reached out and took the page from Fudge. He gazed at the heading scribbled by Hermione so many months ago, and for a moment was unable to speak. Then he looked up, smiling.

“Well, the game’s up,” he said simply. “Would you like a written statement from me, Cornelius—or will a statement before these witnesses suffice?”

Harry saw McGonagall and Kingsley look at each other, fear in both faces.

“Statement?” Fudge repeated. “What—I don’t—”

“Dumbledore’s Army, Cornelius. Not Potter’s Army. _Dumbledore’s Army.”_ Even as he spoke and waved the parchment at him, he wore a smile.

“But—but—”

 Understanding suddenly blazed in Fudge’s eyes. He took a horrified step backward, yelped, and jumped out of the fire again. “You?” He whispered, stamping on his smoking cloak again.

“That’s right,” Dumbledore returned pleasantly.

“You organized this?”

“I did.”

“You recruited students for—for your army?”

“Tonight was supposed to be the first meeting, merely to see whether they would be interested in joining me. I see now that it was a mistake to invite Miss Edgecombe, of course.”

Marietta nodded. Fudge looked from her to Dumbledore and back again, his chest swelling.

“Then you _have_ been plotting against me!” He yelled.

“That’s right,” Dumbledore said cheerfully.

“NO!” Harry shouted. Kingsley shot him a look of warning, and McGonagall widened her eyes threateningly, but he had suddenly realized what Dumbledore was about to do and he could not let it happen.

“No—Professor Dumbledore!”

“Be quiet, Harry, or I am afraid you’ll have to leave my office.” said Dumbledore calmly.

“Yes, shut up, Potter!” Fudge barked, his face a mixture of horror and delight. “Well, well, well, I came here expecting to expel Potter, and instead—”

“You get to arrest me,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “It’s like losing a Knut and finding a Galleon, isn’t it?”

“Weasley!” cried Fudge, quivering with delight. “Weasley, have you gotten it all written down? Everything he’s said?”

“Yes, sir, I think so, sir!” said Percy eagerly, his nose splattered with ink due to the speed of his note-taking.

“Duplicate your notes, Weasley, and send a copy to the _Daily Prophet_ at once! If we send a fast owl, we should make the morning edition!” Percy dashed from the room hurriedly. “You,” Fudge continued, looking back at the headmaster. “Will be escorted back to the Ministry where formally charged and then sent to Azkaban to await trial!”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, shaking a finger. “I thought we might hit that little snag,”

“Snag?” Said Fudge, vibrating with joy. “I see no snag, Dumbledore!”

“Well, I’m afraid I do,”

“Oh really?”

“Well—it’s just that you seem to be laboring under the delusion that I am going to—what is the phrase? ‘Come quietly.’ I am afraid I am not going to come quietly at all, Cornelius. I have absolutely no intention of being sent to Azkaban. I could break out, of course—but what a waste of time, and frankly, I can think of a whole host of things I’d rather be doing.”

Umbridge’s face steadily grew redder, as though she were being filled with boiling water. The man beside Kingsley, the only one who’d remained entirely silent, made a movement to his pocket, almost casually.

“Don’t be silly, Dawlish,” said Dumbledore kindly. “I’m sure you’re an excellent Auror, I seem to remember that you achieved ‘Outstanding’ in all your N.E.W.T.s, but if you attempt to—er—‘bring me in’ by force, I will have to hurt you.”

The man Dumbledore addressed blinked, and looked to Fudge for further instruction.

“So,” sneered Fudge. “You intend to take on Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Dolores, and myself single-handed, do you?”

“Merlin’s beard, no,” Dumbledore laughed. “Not unless you are foolish enough to force me to.”

“He will not be single-handed!” McGonagall snarled, plunging her hand into her robes.

“Oh yes, he will, Minerva!” Dumbledore said sharply. “Hogwarts needs you!”

“Enough of this rubbish!” Fudge yelled, pulling out his own wand. “Dawlish, Shaklebolt! _Take him!”_

A streak of silver light flashed around the room. There was a bang like a gunshot, and the floor trembled. A hand grabbed the scruff of Harry’s neck and forced him down on the floor as a second silver flash went off—several portraits yelled in protest. Fawkes screeched, and a cloud of dust filled the air. Coughing in the dust, Harry saw a dark figure fall to the ground with a crash in front of him. There was a shriek and a thud, and somebody cried, “No!” Then the sound of breaking glass, frantically scuffling footsteps, a groan—and silence.

Harry struggled to see who was half-strangling him and saw Professor McGonagall crouched beside him. She had forced both him and Marietta out of harm’s way. Dust was still floating gently down through the air on to them. Panting slightly, Harry saw a very tall figure move toward them.

“Are you all right?” Dumbledore asked softly.

“Yes!” Said Professor McGonagall, getting to her feet and dragging Harry with her. The dust was clearing. The wreckage of the office loomed into view: Dumbledore’s desk had been overturned, all of the spindly tables had been knocked to the floor, their silver instruments in pieces. Fudge, Umbridge, Kingsley, and Dawlish lay motionless on the floor. Fawkes the phoenix soared in wide circles above them, singing softly.

“Unfortunately, I had to hex Kingsley too, or it would have looked very suspicious.” Dumbledore murmured in a low voice. “He was remarkably quick on the uptake, modifying Miss Edgecombe’s memory like that while everyone was looking the other way. Thank him for me, won’t you, Minerva?

“Now, they will wake very soon, and it would best if they do not know that we had time to communicate—you must act as though no time has passed, as though they were merely knocked to the ground, they will not remember—”

“Where will you go, Dumbledore?” Whispered McGonagall. “Grimmauld Place?”

“Oh no,” said Dumbledore. “I am not leaving to go into hiding. Fudge will soon wish he’d never dislodged me from Hogwarts, I promise you…”

“Professor Dumbledore…” Harry began. There was so much to say. Apologies, words of gratitude, questions, deep concern, all vied for a place on his lips, but the old sorcerer spoke before he could utter another word.

“Listen to me, Harry,” he said firmly. “You must practice and study Occlumency as hard as you can, do you understand? Do everything Professor Snape asks of you and be sure to practice it particularly every night before you go to sleep so you’ll close your mind from bad dreams—you will understand why soon enough, but you must promise me—”

The man called Dawlish was stirring. Dumbledore seized Harry’s wrist.

“Remember—close your mind—” but as soon as his fingers closed around Harry’s skin, a pain shot through the scar on his forehead, and again he was filled with the terrible desire to attack, to strike and bite and bring infinite pain to Dumbledore.

“—you will understand.” Whispered the wizard. Fawkes circled the office and swooped low over him. Dumbledore released Harry, raised his hand, and grasped the phoenix’s long, golden tail. There was a flash of fire, and the two had gone.

The four unconscious people then leaped to their feet, desperate to discover where the wizard had gone. Dawlish, Umbridge and Kingsley all ran for the stairs, knowing well that one cannot simple Apparate on Hogwarts’ grounds.

Fudge stayed behind a few moments, looked at Marietta, Harry, and McGonagall. “Well, I’m afraid this is the end of your friend Dumbledore.”

“You think so, do you?” McGonagall growled. Fudge seemed like he hadn’t heard her, gazing around the portraits.

“You’d better get those two off to bed,” said Fudge, looking back to Professor McGonagall with a dismissive nod toward the students at her side. Relieved to be away from him, she marched away, escorting them to their common room doors wordlessly.


	16. The Big Bang Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Sorry for the delay, it was a bit longer than I expected it to be, but I'm back on track now! I hope you enjoy~  
> Much love  
> RC

Educational Decree Number Twenty-eight followed Dumbledore’s disappearance, naming Umbridge Hogwarts’ new Headmistress. Every name on the parchment titled DUMBLEDORE’S AMRY had been called to detention. Luckily, during breakfast, the jars of murtlap essence had been delivered to the other houses. The detention took place in the Great Hall, where Umbridge sat upon Dumbledore’s throne-like chair, watching them all with a mixture of shame and satisfaction. Hermione could hear the students around her grinding their teeth. She could hear sharp intakes of breath, both feigned and genuine. At the end of it, she and Luna performed healing spells in secluded areas of the castle as students passed them, closing their wounds so they could heal faster. More murtlap was concocted and handed out. Alliances and friendships strengthened because of it.

The next day, an Inquisitorial Squad, consisting mostly of Slytherins (none of whom had participated in the D.A., for those students were punished more severely and deemed untrustworthy), was put into power, but by the end of the week, Malfoy had yet to taunt the lioness with his newfound power, which she thought had been a very wise move indeed.

The House hourglasses were remarkably empty, no doubt due to the fact that I.S. members could deduct House points on a whim. Hermione, Ron and Harry were just studying the hourglasses when Fred and George appeared.

“Noticed, have you?” Fred asked.

“This undermines the whole Prefect system,” Hermione growled, watching rubies fly upwards, leaving the bulb emptier.

“Montague tried to take points from us during break,” said George.

“What do you mean ‘tried’?” Ron asked quickly.

“He never managed to get the words out,” said Fred. “Due to the fact that we forced him headfirst into that Vanishing Cabinet on the first floor.

“But with Umbridge in charge now, are you worried about getting in trouble?” Harry asked.

“Not until Montague reappears, and that could take weeks, I dunno where we sent him,” Fred said coolly. “Anyway, we’ve decided that we don’t care about getting into trouble anymore.”

“Have you ever?" Hermione asked.

“’Course we have,” said George. “Never been expelled, have we?”

“We’ve always known where to draw the line,” said Fred.

“We might have put a toe across it occasionally,” said George.

“But we’ve always stopped short of causing real mayhem,” Fred finished.

“But now?” Hermione said.

“Well, now—” George began.

“—with Dumbledore gone—”

“—we reckon a bit of mayhem—”

“—is exactly what our dear new Head deserves,” Fred finished

“So you want to be expelled?” Hermione asked coolly, a look of amusement on her face.

“We’d walk out right now if we weren’t determined to do our bit for Dumbledore first!” Fred said with conviction, and checked his watch. “Anyway, phase one is about to start. I’d get in the Great Hall for lunch, if I were you, that way the teachers will see you can’t have had anything to do with it.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow, with an interested air. Harry actually asked, “Anything to do with what?”

George waved his has dismissively. “You’ll see. Run along, now.”

The twins turns away and disappeared in the swelling crowd as other students surged forward for lunch. The lioness watched them depart before she turned and joined the masses, pulling Harry and Ron along with her.

“Hermione, you actually looked _amused_ by their plans. What the hell’s gotten into you?” Ron whispered as they sat down to lunch.

Hermione lifted one shoulder. “Fred and George’s tricks on Umbridge are rather entertaining. They’ve got their minds set to their bloody joke shop, and passing their N.E.W.T.s isn’t going to help them in the business world. Why fight them?”

Ron studied her silently, while Hermione’s eyes locked on a spot just above Harry’s shoulder, and upon turning, saw that Filch the caretaker was approaching him.

“The headmistress would like to see you, Potter,” He leered, glancing at the other two Gryffindors.

“I didn’t do it,” Harry said stupidly, thinking of whatever Fred and George were planning.

“Guilty conscience, eh?” He wheezed, his jowls trembling with silent laughter. “Follow me…”

Harry spared a glance to Hermione and Ron, the former of which had risen out of her seat. He shook his head hastily and shrugged, sending her a hopefully reassuring look.

As he followed Filch from the Great Hall, he heard the caretaker humming creakily under his breath, and a spring in his step. As they began climbing the marble staircase, he said, “Things are changing around here, Potter.”

“I’ve noticed,” Harry returned coolly.

“Yerse… I’ve been telling Dumbledore for years and years he’s too soft with you all,” He paused to chuckle. “You filthy little beasts would have never dropped Stinkpellets if you’d known I had it in my power to whip you raw, would you? Nobody would have thought of throwing Fanged Frisbees down the corridors if I could’ve strung you up by the ankles in my office, would they? But when Education Decree Twenty-nine comes in, Potter, I’ll be allowed to do them things… _And_ she’s asked the Minister to sign an order for the expulsion of Peeves… Oh, thing are going to be very different around here with _her_ in charge…”

 _That’s why he’s in such a good mood,_ Harry thought glumly. Umbridge had certainly gone to great lengths to get him on her good side. He would probably end up being a major weapon in her arsenal with his knowledge of secret passageways and hiding places being second only to the Weasley twins.

“Here we are,” Filch said, leering down at Harry as he rapped three times on Umbridge’s door and pushed it open. “The Potter boy to see you, ma’am.”

Umbridge’s office had not changed much since Harry’s last detention, with the exception of a large wooden block lying across the front of her desk with the word HEADMISTRISS spelled across it in large golden letters. Harry had to choke down a smile as he thought of Dumbledore’s office, and how it had sealed itself away from her when she’d tried to claim the room as her own. It was a right hissy fit she’d thrown when the stone gargoyle had refused to allow her passage, leaving with only the original office she’d had to start out with.

In the corner, he saw that she’d chained his Firebolt with a padlock, along with the twin’s Cleansweeps. Umbridge had been scribbling on her pink parchment and looked up with a wide smile upon their entrance.

“Thank you, Argus.” She said sweetly.

“Not at all, ma’am, not at all,” said Filch, bowing as low as his rheumatism would allow and exited backwards.

“Sit,” said Umbridge curtly, pointing towards a chair and Harry sat. She continued to scribble for a few moments. He watched some of the foul kittens gamboling around the plates over her head, wondering what fresh horror she had in store for him.

“Well now,” she said finally, setting her quill down and surveying him complacently like a toad about to swallow a particularly juicy fly. “What would you like to drink?”

“What?” Harry asked, nearly certain he’d misheard her.

“To drink, Mr. Potter,” she repeated, smiling wider than before. “Tea? Coffee? Pumpkin juice?” As she named each beverage, she her short wand a wave and a glass of each appeared upon her desk.

“Nothing, thank you,” Harry returned.

“I wish you to have a drink with me,” she said, her voice becoming dangerously sweet. “Choose one,”

“Fine… tea then,” Harry said shrugging.

She got up and made quite the performance of adding milk with her back to him. She then bustled around her desk with it, smiling so wide it was sinister.

“There,” she said, handing it to him. “Drink it before it gets cold, won’t you? Well now, Mr. Potter… I thought we ought to have a little chat, after the distressing events of last night.”

He said nothing. She settled herself back into her seat and waited. When several long moments had passed, she said gaily, “You’re not drinking up!”

He raised the cup to his lips, and then, just as suddenly, lowered it. One of the horrible painted kittens behind Umbridge had great rounded blue eyes, just like Mad-Eye Moody’s magical one, and it had just occurred to Harry what Mad-Eye would say if he ever heard that Harry had drunk anything offered by a known enemy.

“What’s the matter? Do you want sugar?” Umbridge asked, eyeing him closely.

“No,” said Harry. He raised his cup again and pretended to take a sip, though keeping his mouth tightly closed. Umbridge’s smile widened.

“Good.” She whispered. “Very good. Now then…” she leaned forward. “ _Where is Albus Dumbledore?”_

“No idea,” Harry said promptly.

“Drink up, drink up,” she urged, smiling. “Now, Mr. Potter, let us not play childish games. I know that you know where he has gone. You and Dumbledore have been in this together from the beginning. Consider your position, Mr. Potter…”

“I don’t know where he is,” Harry repeated. He pretended to drink again, and her eyes never left him.

“Very well. Will you tell me about Fleur Delacour?” her voice trembled over the name, as though it tasted of turpentine. “I know she was in the Hog’s Head that day you went there, I know she spoke for you, I know she worked at the Three Broomsticks, though I never caught her there. Where is she now? Did someone tip her off? Was she involved in that group Dumbledore had you recruit for?”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “She was in Hog’s Head by chance, and all she said was that she believed me. Was her name on the list? She was at the meeting last night, so no, she wasn’t part of the group.” Harry bit, locking his eyes on hers. “I don’t know if she ever _worked_ for the Three Broomsticks, but I did see her there. Is that a crime now, Professor?”

“Did she go there to meet Hermione Granger?”

“I don’t know, Professor. I don’t interrogate Hermione about everything she does. Is that a crime now, too?” He fixed his voice carefully, willing genuine interest into it.

“It should be…” she grumbled, so low, he was hardly certain he’d heard her. “Where is she now?”

“Again, I don’t know, Professor. I haven’t spoken to Fleur since the Hog’s Head.”

“And what did you say to her?”

“I thanked her for her support.”

Umbridge nodded. Harry pretended to drink, hiding any expression that displayed his relief of Umbridge’s eyes being taken off Fleur for the moment.

“What about Sirius Black?” Now, the lion’s stomach clenched before it turned over.

“I don’t know,” he answered a little too quickly.

“Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge sweetly. “Let me remind you that it was I who almost caught the criminal Black in the Gryffindor fire in October. I know perfectly well that it was you he was meeting and if I had had any proof neither of you would be at large today, I promise you. I repeat, Mr. Potter. Where is Sirius Black?’

“No idea,” Harry returned loudly. “Haven’t got a clue.”

They stared at each other for a long, silent time.

“Very well, Potter, I will take your word for it this time, but be warned; the might of the Ministry stands behind me. All channels of communication in and out of Hogwarts are being monitored. A Floor Network Regulator is keeping watch over every fire in this school—except mine, of course. My Inquisitorial Squad is opening and reading all owl post entering and leaving the castle. And Mr. Filch is observing all secret passages in and out of the castle. If I find a shred of evidence—”

_BOOM!_

The very floor of the office shook; Umbridge slipped sideways, clutching to her desk for support, looking shocked.

“What was—?”

She was gazing toward the door; Harry took the opportunity to dump his almost full cup of tea into the nearest vase of dried flowers. He could hear people running and screaming several floors below.

“Back to lunch with you, Potter!” she barked, raising her wand and dashing out of the office. Harry gave her a few seconds’ start before he followed to see what the source of all the uproar was.

It was not difficult to find. One floor down, the pandemonium reigned. Somebody had set off what seemed to be an enormous crate of enchanted fireworks.

Dragons comprised entirely of green-and-gold sparks were soaring up and down the corridors, emitting loud fiery blasts and bangs as they went. Shocking-pink Catherine wheels five feet in diameter were whizzing lethally through the air like so many flying saucers. Rockets with long tails of brilliant silver stars were ricocheting off the walls. Sparklers were writing swearwords in midair of their own accord. Fire-crackers were exploding like mines everywhere Harry looked, and instead of burning themselves out, fading out of sight or fizzling to a halt, these pyrotechnical miracles seemed to be gaining in energy and momentum the longer Harry watched.

Filch and Umbridge were standing, apparently transfixed with horror, halfway down the stairs. As Harry watched, one of the larger Catherine wheels seemed to decide that what it needed was more room to maneuver; it whirled toward Umbridge and Filch with a sinister _wheeeeeeeeee._ Both adults yelled with fright and ducked and it soared straight out of the window behind them and off across the grounds. Meanwhile, several of the dragons and a large purple bat that was smoking ominously took advantage of the open door at the end of the corridor to escape toward the second floor.

“Hurry Filch, hurry!” Umbridge shrieked. “They’ll be all over the school unless we do something— _Stupefy!”_

A red jet of light shot out of her wand and hit one of the rockets. Instead of freezing in midair, it exploded with such force that it blasted a hole in a painting of a soppy-looking witch in the middle of a meadow—she ran for it just in time, reappearing seconds later squashed into the painting next door, where a couple of wizards playing cards stood up hastily to make room for her.

“Don’t Stun them, Filch!” Shouted Umbridge, as if he’d suggested it in the first place.

“Right you are, Headmistress!” wheezed Filch, who, being a Squib, could no more have Stunned the fireworks than swallowed them. He dashed into a nearby cupboard, pulled out a broom, and began swatting at the fireworks as they passed; the broom was ablaze in seconds.

Harry had seen enough. Laughing, he ducked down low and ran to a door he knew was concealed behind a tapestry a little way along the corridor and slipped through to find Fred and George hiding just behind it, listening to Umbridge’s and Filch’s yells and quaking with suppressed mirth.

“Impressive,” Harry said quietly grinning. “Very impressive… You’ll put Dr. Filibuster out of business, no problem… How’d you get them to last so long, and make them immune to Stun spells?”

“Cheers,” George replied, wiping a tears off his face. “Oh, I hope she tries Vanishing them next, they’ll multiply by ten every time you try…”

“Harry, you know we can’t sell our secrets,” Fred said, his smile so big it looked fit to reach his ears. “But I will say a particular, very _bright_ witch assisted us a little…”

“ _No…”_ Harry whispered, shocked.

The twins only nodded. The fireworks continued to burn and spread all over the school that afternoon. Though they caused plenty of disruption, especially the firecrackers, the other teachers did not seem to mind them very much.

“Dear, dear,” McGonagall said sardonically as one of the dragons soared around her classroom, emitting loud bangs and exhaling flame. “Miss Brown, would you mind running along to the Headmistress and informing her that we have an escaped firework in our classroom?”

The upshot of it all was that Professor Umbridge spent her first afternoon as headmistress running all over the school answering the summonses of the other teachers, none of whom seemed able to rid their rooms of the fireworks without her. When the final bell rang and the students were heading back to Gryffindor Tower with their bags, Hermione, Harry, and Ron saw, with immense satisfaction, a disheveled and soot-blackened Umbridge tottering sweaty-faced away from Professor Flitwick’s classroom.

“Thank you so much, Professor!” Flitwick called in his squeaky little voice. “I could have gotten rid of the firecrackers myself, but I wasn’t sure whether I had the _authority...”_

Beaming, he closed his classroom door in her snarling face.

Fred and George were heroes in the Common Room that night. Hermione joined in the festivities happily, a bottle of butterbeer in each hand as she laughed with the twins, joining them for a loud chorus of an Irish drinking song the twins knew. With a startling bang at the portrait hole, silence took reign, and loud, raucous noise filled the room once more, when Fleur Delacour herself entered.

Hermione threw herself into her arms, kissing every inch of her that she could reach. The Veela laughed loudly, returning her surprising affection before she finally made her way over to Fred and George, offering them a bottle of firewhisky, making sure they understood it was _theirs_ and not for sharing. With a shout, they lifted the blonde onto their shoulders, carrying her around the Common Room as another song picked up.

The younger students, all of whom Fleur had tutored herself during the D.A. meetings, demanded hugs from her once the twins had set her down, as she’d had to miss several meetings due to the goblins. The lioness, however, refused to leave her side for even a moment, snuggling close to her when she’d finally been allowed to sit down.

“How on Earth did you manage to get in here? Umbridge has taken incredible security measures, she’s even been interrogating students about you.” She said, giving up one of her butterbeers.

“You honestly think I can’t maneuver my way around Umbridge? She’s been running herself ragged around the castle all day and I’ve been training with the Order, I can make myself invisible for long periods of time. I’ll be fine, however, I do not want you sneaking around the castle.”

Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes. “We’ll see how well that goes. You do know I’m part-Veela now, too.”

Fleur chuckled. “Yes, love, I know, and I’m not doubting your ability to do so, I’d never doubt your ability. But, I am an Order member, and a legal adult. I can use magic off Hogwarts grounds, whereas you cannot, and I’d rather take the risks in your place,” She kissed the Gryffindor’s cheek gently. “Plus, I never get the opportunity to be the mouse old cat Umbridge wants to kill so badly. It’s rather thrilling.”

“I know _exactly_ how thrilling it is,” Hermione laughed.

“Oh, yes, phenomenal job assisting the twins. The corridors are in ruins and I had to elude a firework myself just coming in.” She gave Hermione a high five with a large smile.

“Why don’t you take a day off from homework?” Hermione called to Harry and Ron, where they sat at the table, their books before them and their parchments untouched.

“Are you feeling all right, Hermione?” Ron asked worriedly.

“I’m feeling rebellious, Ron. And the teachers are, too. They’re not going to care, especially when it was _your_ brothers who caused today’s magnificent disaster.”

“And with a load of help from you, Granger!” Fred called from across the room. Hermione laughed and kissed Fleur again. Harry and Ron abandoned their books, got out playing cards, and thanked Fleur for her influence on Hermione’s behavior, although she insisted she really hadn’t changed much, and with the excess energy from the Veela, she had taken up another class. 

Harry shook his head and sighed. “I suppose some things never will change, huh?” He laughed.

The two boys eventually retired to bed about an hour later, Fleur and Hermione following suit a few minutes later.

“I can’t stay tonight, love,” Fleur sighed regretfully, sitting on the edge of Hermione’s bed while she changed into pajamas.

Hermione sighed as she sat down beside her, throwing an arm over her shoulders. “I didn’t expect you could, although I had hoped…”

“What is it, love? Wanted to celebrate this little victory with other means?” Fleur chuckled, bumping her shoulder gently.

Hermione joined her laughter. “Yes, actually, I had hoped.”

Fleur hummed softly for a moment. “Perhaps later this week, or the weekend. As much as I enjoy taunting Umbridge, I’d like to remain undetected and safely so.”

Hermione nodded, and met her lips. “I know,” she sighed heavily. “Just a few minutes?”

Fleur chuckled, and lay down beside the lioness, curling her arms around her protectively. They lay together, and listened as the sky opened, and let a shower fall, its cadence soft and comforting in the dark. Hermione’s eyes grew heavy, her breathing came even, and as much as it pained the Veela to leave, she slowly extracted herself from Hermione’s embrace, after she was sure she’d fallen asleep. With incredible care, she pulled the blankets around her shoulders, and kissed her forehead, before she crept through the castle, and the onslaught of rain.


	17. The Big Bang Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, lovelies. I'd like to post this chapter early (very early) to compensate for my previous neglect. I do sincerely apologize. Also, thank you for the comments you've left me. Everytime I see that something's in my inbox, I do a little wiggle-dance, and it makes me happy, so please, don't hold back! I love hearing from you all. And, of course, feel free to chat on Tumblr if you'd like (I would respond to each comment, but that'd impact the number of comments displayed on the thumbnail, and thus make my fic look more enticing than it is) but know that I greatly appreciate each of them and they've all made me do the wiggle-dance. Now, go on and have fun!  
> Much love,  
> RC

The next night, Harry had an Occlumency lesson he had not practiced for. Despite his best efforts, trying to shut his mind and emotions down during class was proving futile, as all the professors had begun firing review questions at them.

When he returned to the Common Room, much earlier than usually expected, he found Hermione and Ron catching up on the homework they’d willingly neglected the night before.

“Harry, you’re finished early,” Ron said as he watched his approach. Hermione studied him with a keen eye before lifting her voice.

“Something happened.” It was not a question, merely a polite way of demanding to know the exact reason why he was in so early.

“Montague turned up in a fourth-floor toilet.” He stated. Ron barked a laugh.

“And?” Hermione pressed.

“And, nothing.” Harry returned, locking eyes with her. He nearly withered under her scrutiny, but somehow managed to keep his composure. Her dark eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed, not in anger or disbelief, but in mere thought, the same as they did when she encountered a difficult question. He felt his control slip, but she looked away at the last moment before any word could fall out of his mouth.

Hermione nodded once. “All right, then. Best finish your homework since you’ve the time now.”

He took the invitation readily, and spread his books around them.

“Snape also told me he think I’ve got the basics down,” Harry murmured after a few moments.

“So you won’t be taking lessons with him anymore?” Hermione asked softly.

“Nope, he said he thinks I can handle it on my own, now.”

Hermione said nothing. She could practically smell the deception in his breath as he exhaled the words. But she put it aside. If it was important, vital, he would tell them, as he always had. If it needed processing, he would process it, and tell them later. Everyone guards their own secrets, after all. Harry, she reasoned, was no different.  

 

The following day was the start of Easter holiday, and while Harry initially thought the lioness would spend the day plotting how she was to see her Veela, she surprised him by drawing up study schedules for each of them. When she handed Ron his, his face turned as red as his hair.

“We only have six weeks until exams?!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, this can’t be a shock to you…”

“There’s been a lot going on, Hermione. Jesus…” he looked back down at his slip and his face brightened. “Hey! You’ve given me an evening off every week!”

“Yes, that’s for Quidditch practice. And if you follow that schedule, you should do fine.”

Ron’s expression clouded again. “What’s the point? We’ve got about as much a chance of winning the Quidditch Cup this year as Dad’s got of becoming Minister…”

Hermione said nothing, but fixed her eyes on Harry. Again, he felt himself wilting under her stare, an idly wondered how strong her gaze would be if she put real effort behind it.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” her voice was soft as it carried across the small space between them. Even her eyes were soft, but both her gaze and her voice held such persuasion to speak truthfully, he had to choke the urge down.

“Nothing, just a little surprised at how soon it is, too, I suppose,” He managed.

Again, she could smell the deception, and again, she decided to throw him a bone instead of dig deeper.

“I saw Cho earlier. She looked miserable too; have you had a row again?”

“Wha—oh, yeah, we have.” Harry said, seizing the chance.

“What about?”

“That sneak friend of hers, Marietta,” Harry spat.

“Yeah, well I don’t blame you!” Ron cut in, going off on his own tirade that lasted at least a quarter of an hour. By the time he stopped, panting, Hermione and Harry both had lost interest and turned back to their books.

Over the holiday, whatever was plaguing Harry was still a mystery to Hermione, but she’d long since stopped pressing him. She took the time to study and write to Fleur, whose absence was currently driving her mad. She’d never though she would end up being the kind of person that actually craved a person, or craved sex, especially, but she came to the realization nonetheless. Her need and desire for Fleur had only increased since their mating, keeping her up at night and causing her to run far more frequently than she ever had before. The two had long taken advantage of writing to one another with the spell, and it was this, nothing else, that kept her desire sated until they could see one another again. Fleur’s grasp on the English language was intoxicating; even the most sinful acts were described with an exotic and adventurous air that made best-selling erotica look like a half-assed attempt. Her words left Hermione panting, salivating as she read what the Veela yearned to give to her, her promises of what would come. It was hard to tell if this activity did more harm than good, for even as her body was made satisfied, she could not reach the same heights or bliss as she did when Fleur took her there.

Even so, the tension made her run far more often, and eventually led to her to extend her route to burn off as much energy as she could before retiring to her empty quarters with no hope of Fleur waiting for her.

It was the last day of Easter holiday and Hermione was panting by the time she made it to Black Lake, but she forced herself to continue, sweat dripping from her brow. It was her fourth run of the day, and it was only two-thirty. Her legs ached, her lungs burned and lactic acid had long set into her muscles, which made breaks far more trouble than they were worth.

But she continued. A full lap around the lake, and again around the castle, and she finally slowed, her ribs stretched to the limits as she tried to take in as much air as possible. With a sigh, she straightened, pushing her hands against her knees so she could spit into the grass. For several long minutes, she paced outside, her hands behind her head as she schooled her breathing and her heart rate slowed. Each step felt like her legs were cast in iron, and she desperately hoped that four three-mile runs would be enough for the day. She drew her wand and conjured a tall glass of water and drank thirstily, filling it three more times before she Vanished it away.

The staircases were absolute hell. Each step made her muscles scream in protest, the sinews and ligaments twisting into a flexed position and reluctant to release. She made her way up slowly, clutching to the rail for support.

Seven floors. Seven, bloody, God-forsaken, miserable, repugnant, awful, unnecessary floors with no possible shortcut from here to there and into her bed.

It was half-past three by the time she finally stumbled into the Common Room. She looked longingly at the sofa, but forced herself on, up another flight of fucking stairs, before she collapsed on her bed, flicking her wand to shut and lock her door before she slid her sweatpants off her legs with a careful motion. Her muscles twitched every few moments.

She _Accio’d_ the jar of lotion Fleur had made over the summer when she’d nearly killed herself riding horses, as her legs had been so unused to the exertion. With a heavy sigh, she rubbed it into her skin, feeling the potion seeping into her muscles and relaxing them, even though they still twitched.

With a sad thought, she wished Fleur could be there to care for her as she had over the summer. She wished she could feel the Veela’s hands massage her tired body, her long, slender fingers expertly untying the knots along her form, only to tie a knot in her stomach, to make her yearn—

She actually shook her head. _That’s what we’re trying to avoid, brain. That’s why lactic acid is building up in every part of my legs, that’s why my blood pressure is rising, that’s why you keep making neurotransmitters to tell you, ‘Hey, this hurts. We need to stop doing this because we don’t have the bloody oxygen to keep doing this exercise.’ So stop, brain. Stop making such excess amounts dopamine and acetylcholine._  

Arguing with her own brain. She sighed heavily and laughed at herself. With a surge of determination, she pulled her books over to her, and distracted her head for a solid two hours. In that time, the potion-infused lotion had numbed her legs to the point of being able to support herself, that she made her way down to check on the boys and ask them to bring her a plate back from dinner.

After deciding that sitting on the couch was probably a terrible idea, she did so anyway, for there were several pamphlets lying on the coffee table, advertising different jobs and the requirements for each. Idly, she lifted one.

 _Are you seeking a challenging career in involving travel, adventure, and substantial, danger-related treasure bonuses? Then consider a position with Gringotts Wizarding Bank, who are currently recruiting Curse-Breakers for thrilling opportunities abroad!_ One read. She sighed heavily and glanced out the window. She flicked her wand, slightly disappointed that Fleur had not written to her, and decided to send her own message.

_Just thinking of you. I hope your day’s been alright; mine’s been brutal. This Veela stuff needs to work itself out soon, or I won’t be able to walk for long. I ran four times today. My legs have more lactic acid than they do flesh. Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. Write me back whenever you get the chance. I love you._

Fleur didn’t respond to the message until nearly eight, but no matter the time it was quite welcome. The boys had returned and she had eaten dinner, surprised that her legs actually felt better than she would have expected.

“Wow, you’re actually walking,” Fred commented, stretching out in an armchair.

Hermione shrugged with a smile as she picked up more pamphlets. “Veela healing properties, I suppose. I’m going to start working on my arms next,” She laughed, showing him her bicep.

She returned to her seat as Fred chuckled and rolled his eyes, leaning in toward Harry, but even as he whispered, Hermione could hear him quite clearly.

“So, Ginny’s had a word with us about you. She said you need to talk to Sirius?”

Hermione’s eyes shot to Harry. “Is that what you’ve been keeping from us? You could have asked, Harry, Fleur and I don’t mind.”

“It’s not that, Hermione, I just… I need it to be face-to-face,” he murmured.

“Don’t be ridiculous… With Umbridge patrolling all the fires?” She asked softly.

“I never said I tried to get into contact with him, just that I need to. I’m not that thick.” He bit.

“Well, I think we can find a way around that,” George interjected before a fight could start. “It’s a simple matter of causing a diversion. Now, you might have noticed that we have been rather quiet on the mayhem front during the Easter holidays?”

“What was the point, we asked ourselves, of disrupting leisure time?” continued Fred. “No point at all, we answered ourselves. And of course, we’d have messed up people’s studying, too, which would be the very last thing we wanted to do,” he gave Hermione a nod. She actually looked surprised at this thoughtful token.

“But it’s back to business as usual from tomorrow on. And if we’re causing a bit of an uproar, why not do it so that our good friend Harry can have his chat with Sirius?”

“Yes, but even if you do cause a diversion, how is Harry supposed to talk to him?”

“Umbridge’s office…” Harry murmured. “She said the other day that all the fires were under surveillance except her own…”

Hermione was speechless. “Are—you—insane?”

“I don’t think so,”

“And how are you going to get in there?”

Harry was ready for the question. “Sirius’s knife. Christmas before last, Sirius gave me a knife that can unlock any door, and if she’s bewitched it so _Alohomora_ won’t work, which I bet she has, it’ll be flawless.”

“And what do you think of this?” Hermione asked Ron, who’d been silent.

“What happened to the Veela-Granger we were coming to know so well?” George asked.

“I may be more rebellious and energetic, but that does not mean I’m sadistic or lost my wits.” She returned heatedly.

“Well,” Ron spoke up quietly. “If Harry wants to do it, it’s up to him, isn’t it?”

“Spoken like a true friend and Weasley!” Fred shouted, clapping Ron on the back. “Now, Harry, we’ll set it off in the East Wing somewhere, draw her away from her office—I reckon we should be able to guarantee you, what, twenty minutes?” He asked, looking at George.

“Easy,” the other returned.

“What sort of diversion is it?” Ron asked.

“You’ll see, little bro,” said Fred as the two of them got up again. “At least you will if you trot along to Gregory the Smarmy’s corridor round about five o’clock tomorrow.”

 

Harry’s day flew by at a rapid pace, filled by Hermione begging him not to sneak into Umbridge’s office, Snape ignoring him though Potions, which wasn’t bad until he destroyed his potion and gave him a zero anyway, and then when he met with McGonagall to discuss his possible future career ended in a shouting match between his Head of House and Umbridge. He felt guilty for even thinking about showing her up when McGonagall had vouched for him. He sat with his nose buried in his book through Umbridge’s class, his heart pounding very fast in his chest. Hermione continued to beg him, while Ron gave neither advice nor opinion as they left the class.

The sounds of the diversion was unmistakable as he hurried down the corridor. Screams and yells reverberated through the walls from somewhere above. Umbridge promptly flew from her classroom as fast as her short legs could carry her. Pulling out her wand, she hurried off in the opposite direction: It was now or never.

Harry barely heard Hermione’s last plea. He ran down the corridor, her footfalls sounding behind him. Surely she was faster than he, surely she could run longer than he… but when he looked over his shoulder, she had ran in the opposite direction, a hex from her wand striking the ceiling before she hid it away in her robes. Helping the twins. Causing a larger distraction while being incredibly sly about it.

He made it to the office in seconds. Ducking behind a suit of armor, he pulled out the knife and the Invisibility Cloak, unlocked the door, and closed it again. In the same movement, he pulled off the cloak and found a jar of Floo power, and even though he’d never tried this before, he hoped for the best as he knelt down, put his face over the flames, dropped a pinch of powder, and shouted, “Number 12 Grimmauld Place!”

Lupin nearly fell out of his chair when Harry called Sirius’s name. When the wizard knelt by the fire, Harry wasted no time in tell him what he saw in Snape’s Pensieve, or the confusion he felt behind his father’s actions. Lupin and Sirius’s recounting of the events did little to soothe him, but on the account of everyone being young and stupid and yearning to flash their feathers, he almost understood, although it did not excuse his father’s cruelty. Snape had loved Lilly. James resented him, and as a result, Snape resented Harry. It made the clearest sense.

Footsteps sounded behind Harry, and he barely managed to slip under the cloak before Filch shuffled in, and rummaged through Umbridge’s desk. “Ah!” He cried happily. “Approval for Whipping! I can do it at last… they’ve had it coming for years…” He kissed the parchment and headed back out into the corridor, Harry hastily following him. A landing down from Umbridge’s office, and Harry felt it was safe to become visible again, and just in time too, for students were gathered in a wide ring, some of which were covered in a substance that looked very much like Stinksap.

Fred and George stood proudly in the middle of the floor, while Peeves floated above them, gazing down.

“So!” Umbridge said triumphantly, whom Harry realized was standing just a few steps down from him. “You think it amusing to turn a school corridor into a swamp, do you?”

“Pretty amusing, yeah.” Fred returned, without the slightest shadow of fear in his eyes.

Filch elbowed his way closer to Umbridge. “I’ve got the form, Headmistress, and the whips are waiting, oh let me do it now…”

“Very good, Argus. You two,” she continued. “Are about to learn what happens to wrongdoers in my school.”

“You know what?” Fred said. “I don’t think we are.” He turned to his twin. “George, I think we’ve outgrown full-time education.”

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling that way myself,” said George lightly.

“Time to test ourselves in the real world, d’you reckon?”

“Definitely,” George returned, a dangerous glint in his eye.

Before Umbridge could say a word, they raised their wands together and shouted, “ _Accio Brooms!”_

A loud crash sounded from behind Harry. Looking to his left, he ducked just in time—Fred and George’s broomsticks, one trailing the heavy chain and iron peg with which Umbridge had fastened them to the wall, were hurtling along the corridor toward their owners. They turned left, streaked down the stairs, and stopped sharply in front of the twins, the chain clattering loudly on the flagstones.

“We won’t be seeing you, Fred said to Umbridge as he mounted his broom.

“Yeah, don’t bother to keep in touch,” George laughed, taking the same position as Fred.

“If anyone fancies a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley—Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes!” He called in a loud voice. “Our new premises!”

“Special discounts to any Hogwarts students who swear they’re going to use our products to get rid of this old bat!” George added, pointing at Umbridge.

“STOP THEM!” Umbridge screeched as they kicked off from the ground.

“Give her hell, Peeves!” George shouted. The poltergeist, who had never before taken orders from anyone, snapped to attention and rendered a hand salute to the twins as they wheeled over the gather students, a loud, echoing applause following them as they flew out the open doors and into the glorious sunset.

 

Over the next several days, students, inspired by Fred and George’s example, now vied for the newly vacant position of Troublemakers-in-Chief. Despite a new door to Umbridge’s office, for the old one had two broom-shaped holes in it from when the brooms escaped to reunite with their masters, a student had managed to slip a hairy-snouted niffler into the office. The niffler, who’d wrecked great destruction upon the office in its desperate search for shiny objects, leapt on Umbridge upon her entrance, very nearly gnawed the rings off her stubby fingers. Dungbombs and Stinkpellets were dropped so frequently that it became a new fashion to cast a Bubble-Head Charm after lessons to ensure a fresh, clean air supply with the only negative side-effect being the appearance of wearing an upside-down fishbowl over one’s head.

Filch prowled the corridors with a horsewhip in his hands, desperate to catch the miscreants, but now that there were so many of them, he did not know which way to turn. The Inquisitorial Squad did their best to help him, but strange things started happening to its members. Warrington of the Slytherin Quidditch team reported to the hospital wing with a horrible skin condition that made him look like he was covered in cornflakes. Pansy Parkinson, much to Hermione’s delight, missed class most of the week due to her new, ever-growing antlers.

Soon, it became clear just how many Skiving Snackboxes Fred and George had sold before their great finale. Umbridge need only enter her classroom for the students assembled there to faint, vomit, develop dangerous fevers, or else spout blood from both nostrils. Shrieking with rage and frustration, she attempted to trace the mysterious symptoms to their source, but the students told her stubbornly that they were suffering from ‘Umbridge-itis.’  After putting four successive classes in detention (during which, Hermione’s murtlap solution came in fantastic handy) and failing to discover their secret she was forced to give up and allow the bleeding, vomiting, swooning, and sweating students to leave her classroom in droves.  

But not even the users of the Skiving Snackboxes could compete with the master of chaos, Peeves, who seemed to have taken George’s parting words deeply to heart. Cackling madly, he soared through the school, upending tables, bursting out of blackboards, and toppling statues and vases. Twice, he shut Ms. Norris inside suits of armor, from which she was rescued, yowling loudly, by the furious caretaker. He smashed lanterns and snuffed out candles, juggled burning torches over the heads of screaming students, flooded the second floor bathrooms, and whenever he fancied a break, spent hours at a time floating along after Umbridge, blowing loud raspberries whenever she spoke. None of the other staff members seemed inclined to help her. Just a week after Fred and George’s departure, the trio saw McGonagall walk right past Peeves where he was determinedly loosening a crystal chandelier, who, according to Hermione’s sharpened hearing, whispered, “It unscrews the other way.”

Montague had yet to recover from his sojourn in the toilet despite the weeks he’d spent in the hospital wing. He remained confused and addled, and his parents, who marched very angrily up the drive, proved to be yet another fantastic problem for Umbridge to contend with.

During this time, Harry was haunted by what he'd seen in the Pensieve, and what Lupin and Sirius had told him. He kept his findings from Umbridge's fire a safe secret from both Hermione and Ron, unsure of how to tell them of the origin of Snape's cold nature. How could he tell them of his esteemed father's role in the earlier years of Snape's life? How could he tell such things of the man of which he sang praises, before knowing only of his chivalry and bravery, and nothing of his foolish past and beginnings? He knew his father could never have been a saint, but the actions he saw in the Pensieve were undeniably cruel. He kept to himself and his thoughts, hiding behind a textbook to avoid questioning.

 

The Gryffindor/Ravenclaw Quidditch match took place on a bright, sunny late-May Saturday. Harry, who was still feeling quite miserable about Cho, halfheartedly joined in applauding the Gryffindor team, while Hermione watched with her usual less-than-interested expression when it came to the sport.

Not even halfway through the game, Hagrid asked them both to follow him. At first confused, he assured them that now would be the best, and possibly only time, for Umbridge could follow them, and _that_ certainly wasn’t an option.

The giant’s nose was gently dripping blood and both his eyes were blackened, and after taking in his appearance and desperation, the two Gryffindors couldn’t refuse him. As they made their way towards the cabin, Hagrid kept looking around, paranoid that someone was following.

They entered the forest, and Hagrid lifted a large crossbow into his hands. “Hagrid,” Harry asked quietly. “Why are you armed?”

“Jus’ a precaution,” Hagrid returned, shrugging his massive shoulders.

“You didn’t bring your crossbow when you showed us the thestrals…” Hermione added.

“Well, we weren’ goin’ in so far, then. An’ anyway, tha’ was before before Firenze left the forest wasn’ it?”

“Why does Firenze leaving make a difference?”

“’Cause the other centaurs are good an’ riled at me, tha’s why. They used ter be—well yeh couldn call ‘em friendly—but we got on all righ’. Kept to ‘emselves, bu’ always turned up if I wanted a word. Not anymore…”

“Firenze said that they’re angry because he went to work for Dumbledore?” Harry asked, tripping over a root.

“Yeah. Well, angry doesn’ cover it. Ruddy livid. If I hadn’ stepped in, I reckon they’d’ve kicked Firenze to death—”

“They attacked him?” Hermione asked, shocked.

“Yep,” Hagrid returned gruffly. “He had half the herd onto him—”

“And you stopped it? By yourself?” Harry asked, amazed.

“’Course I did, I couldn’t stand by an’ watch ‘em kill him, could I? Lucky I was passin’, really…” He continued to mumble under his breath.

“So, what exactly are we going to see, Hagrid?” Hermione spoke up after a long moment of silence.

“Yeh’ll see in a bit…” Hagrid returned, and did not elaborate any further.

Due to Hagrid’s massive gait, Harry had trouble keeping up with him, but Hermione seemed to do just fine, trotting at his side while nimbly skirting over rocks and roots that reached out to claim a victim. Hagrid stepped off the beaten path in the forest, and the trees grew closer together. Harry’s pupils struggled to take in light, but Hermione’s opened almost instantly, and although the darkness was almost thick, she could see well enough to make out shapes and forms of surrounding trees. Harry jumped at each noise, but Hermione’s nostrils were flared, deep breaths reported no threats. Brambles scratched over their skin, drawing small droplets of blood to form, and they both retracted at deep into their robes as possible to avoid getting cut.

“Hagrid, would it be all right if we lit our wands?” Harry asked.

“Er… All righ’,” Hagrid whispered back. “In fact, maybe we bes’ jus’ stop fer a moment, so I can… fill yeh in, before we ge’ there, like.”

Harry lit his wand, but Hermione left hers in her robes and studied Hagrid in the wand-light. He looked nervous and sad again.

“Righ’, well… see… the thing is…” He took a deep breath. “Well, there’s a good chance I’m goin’ ter be gettin’ the sack any day now. Umbridge reckons it was me that put tha’ niffler in her office. She’s bin lookin’ fer a chance ter get rid of me ever since I got back. I don’ wan’ ter go, o’ course, but if it wasn’ fer… well… the special circumstances I’m abou’ ter explain to yeh, I’d leave righ’ now, before she’s go’ the chance ter do it in front o’ the whole school, like with Trelawney.” The two Gryffindors made sounds of protest, but Hagrid merely waved them off. “It’s not the end o’ the world, I’ll be able ter help Dumbledore once I’m outta here, I can be useful ter the Order. An’ you lot’ll have Grubbly-Plank, yeh’ll—yeh’ll get through yer exams fine…” his voice trembled and broke.

“Don’ worry abou’ me,” he mopped his eyes with an enormous spotted handkerchief. “Look, I wouldn’ be tellin’ yer this at all if I didn’ have ter. See, if I go…well, I can’ leave withou’… withou’ tellin’ someone… because I’ll—I’ll need yeh two ter help me. An’ Ron, if he’s willin’.”

“Of course we’ll help you,” Harry promised at once. “What do you want us to do?”

“I knew yeh’d say yes, but I won’… never…forget...Well, c’mon… jus’ a little bit further through here… Watch yerselves, now, there’s nettles…”

Again, they began picking their way through the forest. It only took a few minutes before Hagrid held up a hand to stop them.

“Really easy,” he said softly. “Very quiet, now,”

The deep, even rumbling of sleeping breaths rattled the bones in Hermione’s inner ear. She froze, her eyes locking onto a large hill of earth that, when studied carefully, moved in time with the rumbles.

“Hagrid,” she said, her voice barely breaking the stillness. “Who is he?”

Heartbeats passed without an answer. “Hagrid, you told us no one wanted to come!” She whispered shrilly. Harry looked between the pair confused.

“Well, no, he didn’t want ter come, but I had ter bring ‘em, Hermione, I had ter! I knew if I jus’ got ‘em back an’ taught him a few manners, I’d be able ter take him outside an’ show ev’ryone he’s harmless!”

“Harmless? He’s been hurting you all this time, hasn’t he? That’s why you’ve had all these injuries!”

“I couldn’ leave him, Hermione! See—he’s my brother!”

“Brother…” Harry said slowly, coming to a realization. “Hagrid, do you mean—”

“Well, half-brother. Turns out me mother took up with another giant when she left me dad, an’ she went an’ had Grawp here—”

“Grawp?” Harry repeated.

“Yeah, well, tha’s what it sounds like when he says his name. He don’ speak a lot of English… I’ve bin tryin’ ter teach him… anyway, she don’ seem ter have liked him any more than she did me… See, with giantesses, what counts is producin’ good big kids, and he’s always been a bit on the runny side fer a giant—on’y sixteen foot.”

“So this is what you want Harry, Ron and me to do?” Hermione asked skeptically.

“Not food or anything!” Hagrid added excitedly. “He can do that himself. No, it’s company he needs. If I jus’ knew someone was carryin’ on tryin’ ter help him a bit… teachin’ him, yeh know…”

Harry shot a glance at Hermione, knowing that he’d already made a promise to Hermione. “Almost makes you wish we had Norbert back, doesn’t it?” Hermione gave a shaky laugh while Hagrid beamed.

“Yeh’ll do it then?”

“We’ll… we’ll try, Hagrid…”

The half-giant beamed, and then proceeded to attempt an introduction. After a very rude awakening, and a very scary, near-death experience, Hagrid decided that saying hello was enough for one day, and held his handkerchief to his freshly bleeding nose as he lead them back out of the forest.

As they picked their way back through the forest, Hermione paused in her steps, the scent of horses carried on the breeze.

“Hold on,” Hagrid said, pulling a bolt from his quiver and fitting it in the crossbow.

The naked torso of a man loomed from the darkness. “I thought that we told you, Hagrid, that you are no longer welcome here?” As the torso drew nearer, they could see that the waist melded seamlessly with the chestnut body of a horse.

“How are yeh, Magorian?”

The trees behind the first centaur rustled, and five more joined him, all of them armed with long bows and arrows bearing astonishingly white feathers. Harry recognized the black-bodied form of Bane who he’d met nearly four years ago, although the centaur gave no token of having remembered Harry.

“So, we agreed, I think, what we would do if this human showed his face in the forest again?”

“‘This human’ now, am I?” said Hagrid testily. “Jus’ fer stoppin’ yeh from committin’ murder?”

“You ought not to have meddled, Hagrid.” Magorian said. “Our ways are not yours, nor are our laws. Firenze has betrayed and dishonored us.”

“I dunno how yeh work that out. He’s done nothin’ except help Albus Dumbledore—”

“Firenze had entered into servitude to humans,” said a gray centaur with a hard, deeply lined face.

“ _Servitude!_ He’s doin’ Dumbledore a favor is all—”

“He is peddling our knowledge and secrets among humans. There can be no return from such disgrace.”

“If yeh say so, but personally, I think yeh’re making a big mistake—”

“Hagrid, let’s just go,” Hermione said desperately.

Hagrid moved forward, but kept his crossbow raised, his eyes locked on the centaurs. They blundered on through the forest, the sun having sunk farther off in the distance, its light creeping away from the edges of the horizon. When they could see the stadium, the sounds of cheers and applause met their ears.

“Another goal?” Hagrid asked, hiding his crossbow. “I guess the game’s over, people are startin’ ter come out. If yeh hurry, yeh can blend into the crowd!” Hurriedly, they wished their goodbyes, and upon reaching the throngs of people, heard a familiar chant rising up on several voices like an infectious action.

_Weasley is our King,_

_Weasley is our King,_

_He didn’t let the Quaffle in,_

_Weasley is our King…_

Harry sighed heavily and kicked the ground. “I wish they’d stop singing that bloody song. Haven’t they gloated enough?”

Hermione agreed wholeheartedly. “Come on, let’s get in before we run into any Slytherins.”

_Weasley can save anything,_

_He never leaves a single ring,_

_That’s why Gryffindors all sing;_

_Weasley is our King._

“Harry…” Hermione said softly, turning towards the source of the noise.

“No…”

“YES!”

Instead of silver-and-green-clad Slytherins, the song came from a mass of red-and-gold, Ron lifted high on their shoulders, waving the Quidditch Cup wildly at Hermione and Harry.

“HARRY! HERMIONE! WE DID IT! WE WON!”

They beamed up at Ron as he passed, the other Gryffindors were apparently not keen on putting him down for any reason, so they happily followed the singing procession of red and gold into the castle.

“Shall we save the news for later, then?” Hermione suggested.

Harry nodded jerkily. “I’m certainly not in any hurry.”

 


	18. To the Weapon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting really bad at chapter titles, so please excuse me. Anyways, on to the next one! We only have three more chapters after this, so I have a question I'd like to ask everyone. I won't be leaving for Basic Training until October. However, the third and final part of the Dusk of Summer series is not even halfway finished, I'll only have two weeks off for Christmas Exodus, during which I'll be getting married along with spending time with my family, then I'll be in AIT (basically condensed college where I'll learn what I'm most likely going to do for the rest of my military career) for 26 weeks. I have no idea how often I'll be able to update, if at all. So, that being said, I'll leave it up to you. I can post as much as possible before I leave in October, or, I can wrap up Cadence and start Kingdom whenever I get the chance. I'll tally the answers, and see what we get! I'd rather you tell me on Tumblr (CadenceoftheRain.tumblr.com) if at all possible. That being said, I greatly appreciate your readership, and I hope you enjoy!  
> Much love,  
> RC

Ron’s excitement over helping Gryffindor scrape the Quidditch Cup ran over into the next day with just as much gusto as it had minutes after the game ended, making Hermione and Harry even more anxious to tell him what had happened the night before.

With a heavy sigh, Hermione interrupted Ron’s current retelling of his last save while they were spreading their books on the ground beneath the beech tree beside the lake.

“Actually, Ron, we didn’t see much of the game. From what I’ve heard, your playing was fantastic, but Hagrid called us into the forest to show us… well, _something.”_

Ron’s offended stare quickly melted into curiosity. “What was it?”

Hermione stole a glance at Harry, who picked up. “He brought back his brother, and hid him in the forest… and he wants us to teach him English…”

The redhead laughed heartily. “Teach him English? What did you tell him, Harry?” When he didn’t respond, Ron glanced at Hermione.

“Harry promised him we’d try.”

Ron looked away, running his fingers through his hair. “But, surely he knows we have exams, and with Umbridge—”

“Yes, he knows, but still. I promised him we’d try, it’s the least we can do after all he’s done for us.”

Ron nodded, and Hermione, though she detested the idea, wholeheartedly agreed.

“Right, well, first things first are exams and grades,” Hermione spoke up, flipping to a page in her Transfiguration book.

On cue, the other two turned to their own books and desperately tried to cram in as much information as their brains could hold.

 

June was soon upon them, and with it their O.W.L.s. Their teachers had stopped assigning homework and instead began reviewing the material they thought would most likely appear on the tests, as well as dissuading students from the temptation of attempting to sneak cheating instruments into the exams.

The first examination was Charms, and as it was the first, everyone had no idea what to expect; the sounds of quills scribbling, sniffling as eyes began to water, and the incessant tapping of legs filled the Great Hall as the fifth years completed the written portion. Nervousness and anxiety was thick in the air, choking and infecting other students who had not yet been stricken by the diseases. Eventually the initial nervousness subsided, and the air was easy to breathe again. Two hours passed in moments, and before Hermione could think about how long it had actually been, McGonagall called them to a halt just as she finished dotting the ‘ _i’s’_ of her last word. 

They milled about in the entrance hall, clutching their exam papers to their chests. Umbridge passed by in pursuit of the examiners, and looked rather nervous and haggard herself.

“Haven’t heard or seen Dumbledore,” an elderly examiner said to Umbridge as they walked. “No idea where he is, I suppose?”

“None at all,” Umbridge returned. “But I daresay the Ministry of Magic will track him down soon enough.”

The elderly witch laughed. “I doubt it. Not if Dumbledore doesn’t want to be found! I should know; examined him personally in Transfiguration and Charms when he did N.E.W.T.s… Did things with a wand I’d never seen before…” Their conversation died as they continued walking, but Hermione couldn’t help but feel a surge of joy at Umbridge’s misery. The doors to the Great Hall opened and the students, upon seeing that the House tables had replaced the rows of desks used for the exam, sat down for lunch with the rest of the school.

After lunch, the practical exams began, where students were called into an adjacent chamber and did not return to the Great Hall after completion. Once that was completed without any major mishaps, they were freed to return to their dormitories where most chose to study for Transfiguration the next day.

The rest of the week continued in a similar manner, the practical for Defense Against the Dark Arts took the cake for being Hermione’s favorite. Umbridge stood and watched her perform each and every defensive spell and counterjinx flawlessly. Her examiner, an older wizard, clapped with gusto as she cast an impeccable boggart banishing spell.

“Very good, Miss Granger, very good! Now, I’ve heard a lot about you from between the grapevine, and I was just wondering if there was anything else you could demonstrate? A Patronus, or something, perhaps? Just for a single bonus point?”

“Of course, sir, if you wish,” she returned with a broad smile. She locked eyes with Umbridge for a moment, resisted the urge to grin, and took her stance. She thought of Fleur and her identical lioness, and in a clear, loud voice, shouted, _“Expecto Patronum!”_

The silvery lioness cascaded from her wand, rolling her shoulders as she paced protectively before Hermione. Her eyes flickered around the room, and locked on Umbridge, her tail swishing back and forth as she halted. A moment later, Hermione broke the spell and the lioness dissipated without a trace.

Again, her examiner applauded her, beyond surprised and pleased that she’d conjured a corporeal Patronus so easily. She gave a slight bow and thanked him for his time before she excused herself, walking past Umbridge with a triumphant spring in her step.

 

While the victory in Defense Against the Dark Arts kept Hermione’s spirits up, she found, both to her relief and misfortune, that the changes her full acceptance of Fleur had not impacted her stress of tests. She found herself fraught and ill-tempered, second-guessing herself so much that for every scrap of leisure time she had was spent buried in a text of some sort. But, one of the changes her acceptance did offer was confidence. It took some reminding and support from Fleur, for she was the only one who possessed the patience to listen to her as she ranted, writing to her for hours on a special pair of parchments charmed by Hermione, so they could write back and forth without the spell, receiving the message as the words were being written.

_Hermione, your whole life you’ve strived to do your best, and this is no different. Has your mind ever failed you before?_

_No, but_

_No, it hasn’t. When you were caught in that Devil’s Snare your first year, did you remember that it hates sunshine?_

_Yes, I did remember, but_

_And did you remember a spell to mimic sunshine to make it release Ron when he refused to listen to you advice to hold still?_

_I did remember._

_And what about when you needed to get to the trapdoor under the Womping Willow? Did you forget how to levitate a stone to touch the knot that made it stop trying to pummel you all to death?_

Hermione sighed heavily. _Fleur, that’s different_

_Not really, love. You didn’t second-guess yourself because you’d studied and you’d practiced and you knew exactly what you were doing. This is no different. You’re anxious, and you were anxious then. You’re incredibly intelligent, and that’s only increased as you’ve grown. You’ve studied and practiced and there’s nothing that can possibly stop you. My mother always told us ‘You are the creator and the conqueror of your own limitations.’ Don’t let your brain fool itself into thinking that you don’t know something when you do._ _You’ll do more than fine, I promise you._

Hermione sighed again. _I wish you were here… you always make things more bearable. When do you think we’ll be able to see each other again?_

_I’m glad I can help on some front. Honestly, I’m not sure. Soon, I hope, but let me stress over that. Now for the moment, stop worrying and just relax, okay? How many times did you run today?_

She chuckled. _Four. Seems to be my average._

_And how are your legs?_

_They don’t bother me anymore. I’ve taken to push-ups and crunches. I can’t seem to get rid of all this energy. Will that go away?_

_I’m not sure. It’s always different, with different people, but you’ll learn how to control it, or at least deal with it. But you’ll never have to worry about your body actually changing like mine does; no changing teeth or pupils or nails. Be thankful, love._

Hermione bit her lip and turned her thoughts elsewhere. _Have you heard from Dumbledore?_

Fleur took her time in answering, for a blot of ink spread from where her quill was pressed to the parchment. _No one’s heard anything from him. Not even Sirius or Lupin or Kingsley. I’ll let you know if anything comes up. You need to get some rest. Just a few more exams, a few more weeks, and summer will be back again. Focus on that right now, dearest._

Hermione huffed. She wasn’t satisfied, but Fleur did have a point. _Right. I’ll write to you tomorrow. I hope you sleep well and have sweet dreams. I love you._

_Only dreams of you. I love you, too._

 

 

Hermione took Fleur’s advice very seriously, and eventually found confidence in her mind again. She’d listen to others study, muttering under their breath, and think the right answer, feeling very pleased when another student either corrected the first or read the answer aloud to prove her right. On Wednesday, the Astronomy theory exam went very smoothly, since she was greatly aided by André’s journal and Fleur’s teaching of the stars. During their nights together, the two loved wrapping up in a blanket and settling by a window, tracing the stars with their eyes and index fingers, wondering of other galaxies so very far away. She’d memorized most of the sky, and movements of the constellations therein, and was the first to complete the exam. 

As the practical for Astronomy was put off for eleven, the afternoon was devoted to Divination and Arithmancy, the latter of which Hermione was confident that she at least scored an ‘Acceptable’ in, and the boys were certain they’d failed the former, but of course, they couldn’t bring themselves to care much for the outcome of the subject anyway.

When the eleventh hour chimed, they found the night to be clear and still, perfect for stargazing. Hermione found herself struck with nostalgia as she remembered the night of her acceptance, and gazed at the spot where she’d kissed the Veela. She remembered how anxiety had flashed in Fleur’s eyes before they flicked to her lips, and how very soft they were when she finally closed the space between them. She remembered the warmth of Fleur’s hand on her cheek, the slight tickle of her hair, and thinking how perfectly they seemed to fit against one another.

Hermione sighed with a smile, and pushing nostalgia aside, set up her telescope, filling in her star chart quickly as she knew the stars well by now. She missed the way Fleur’s hand held hers as she guided her fingers over the constellations, showing her their own and where they met, kissing one another in the sky above. Her brow furrowed as she noticed a peculiar positioning within their stars, one that she’d have to consult the journal for.

Her concentration didn’t break until a distinct roar sounded from the grounds below, and every muscle tensed, her ears straining to pinpoint the origin so her eyes could process it.

Professor Tofty gave a dry cough. “Try to concentrate, now,”

With a worried glance below, the lioness resumed completing the chart, a few empty spaces left. A loud _BANG_ echoed from the grounds, and this time all the students turned to look.

Hagrid’s door had burst open, and by the light flooding from his cabin, they saw him quite clearly; a massive figure roaring and brandishing huge fists, surrounded by six others, who judging by the red jets of light they were casting in his direction, were attempting to Stun him.

“No!” Harry cried, learning over the railing.

“My dear boy!” A professor cried. “This is an examination!”

But everyone had abandoned their star charts: Jets of red light were still flying beside Hagrid’s cabin, yet somehow they appeared to be bouncing off him. He was still upright and fighting. Cries and yells echoed across the grounds; a man yelled, “Be reasonable, Hagrid!” to which Hagrid replied with, “Reasonable be damned, yeh won’ take me like this, Dawlish!”

The outline of Fang could be seen, desperately trying to defend Hagrid, until a spell hit him and he fell to the ground motionless. Hagrid let out a loud roar, lifted the culprit bodily from the ground and threw him at least ten feet away. The body hit the ground and did not rise.

Another figure left the castle, and approached the fray. “How dare you!” A feminine voice demanded. “How _dare_ you!”

“It’s McGonagall,” Hermione whispered at Harry and Ron’s questioning glance.

“Leave him alone! _Alone,_ I say! On what grounds are you attacking him? He has done nothing, nothing to warrant—”

Even the examiners were watching now. Four streaks of red light flew, and struck McGonagall, illuminating her in an eerie red glow before it carried her backwards and into the ground.

“Galloping gargoyles!” shouted Professor Tofty, who seemed to forgotten about the exam completely. “Not so much as a warning! Outrageous behavior!”

Hagrid continued roaring, throwing his fists about until only two figures remained standing, both of which were hurrying backwards away from his fists.

“Get him! Get him!” Umbridge cried, though the last helper was just as reluctant as she to approach him. Hagrid knelt down, lifted Fang’s limp body, and sprinted away, the darkness swallowing his massive figure.

There was a long minute of tense, quivering silence, until Professor Tofty’s voice broke it. “Um… five minutes to go, everyone…”

Those last minutes seemed to last an eternity, but finally, their telescopes haphazardly returned to their holders, the three sprinted down the spiraling staircase, Hermione leading the charge. Several people were yelling their distaste of Umbridge, snarling her name. The lioness clamped her jaw, gnashing her teeth to keep from joining in. When they reached the Common Room, it was full of people, dressed in both robes and pajamas.

“Hagrid did well, didn’t he?” said Ron, who looked more alarmed than impressed. “How come all the spells bounced off him?”

“It’s his mother’s blood.” Hermione answered instantly, through her teeth. “It’s incredibly difficult to Stun a giant, they’re like trolls or dragons. And Professor McGonagall…”

“Four Stunners straight to the chest, and she’s not exactly young…” Harry murmured.

“At least they didn’t get to cart him off to Azkaban,” Ron offered. “I ‘spect he’s gone to join Dumbledore, hasn’t he?”

Hermione sighed. “No one knows where Dumbledore is. Fleur’s spoken to the rest of the Order, and if anyone knows, they’re not telling. Obviously it needs to stay that way.”

“What if she’s lying, Hermione?” Ron asked.

“Fleur wouldn’t lie to me.” Hermione bit off each word. “If she knew something that she couldn’t tell me, she would say ‘I know something about this, but it’s crucial that it remains as secret as possible, but I can tell you everything’s fine’ in order to retain the integrity of her place as an Order member and the integrity of whatever in particular is going on.”

“But I still think he’d try to find Dumbledore anyway, don’t you?” Harry asked, in desperate attempt to quell an argument.

“Yes,” Hermione sighed, looking away from Ron. “I do think he’d try, but he wouldn’t have half as much luck as the Order has if they’re looking for him. I think he may be headed to France, at least for the time being.”

“But why sack Hagrid now?” Angelina Johnson asked loudly from behind them, looking between Seamus and Dean, who’d already relayed the story to the gathered Gryffindors. “It’s not like Trelawney, he’s been teaching much better than usual this year!”

“Umbridge hates part-humans.” Hermione growled, beginning to pace. “She was always going to try to get Hagrid out.”

“And she thought Hagrid was putting nifflers in her office,” piped Katie Bell.

“Oh blimey,” said Lee Jordan, covering his mouth. “It’s me’s been putting the nifflers in her office, Fred and George left me a couple, I’ve been levitating them through her window…”

“She’d have sacked him anyway,” said Dean. “He was too close to Dumbledore.”

“That’s true,” Harry murmured, sinking into an armchair as he watched Hermione pace, her brows knitted together in thought.

“I just hope McGonagall’s all right,” Lavender said tearfully.

“They carried her back up to the castle, we watched through the dormitory window,” said Colin Creevey. “She didn’t look very well…”

“Madame Pomfrey will sort her out,” Alicia Spinnet said firmly. “She hasn’t failed yet.”

The next day was the final exam for History of Magic, and it was not scheduled to take place until the afternoon. Even with Hermione’s sleeping tonic, which had been forcibly poured down their throats the night before, none of them slept well and yearned to return to bed. Instead, they dutifully spent the morning cramming for the exam.

Harry passed out in the middle of it. He fell the floor screaming, jerking, and clawing at the flagstones. As Professor Tofty helped him up and escorted him to the hospital wing, another professor took over and instructed the remaining students to continue with their tests. Hermione turned back to her parchment, staring at it. She forced her brain to sharpen, to recall information and transmit signals down her arm and into her hand to scratch out the correct answers. She was finished in a few minutes, and the hourglass was nearly empty. She put her head in her hands and rubbed her temples, her foot set to tapping against the floor in anxiety.

Finally, the bell chimed, and they were allowed leave. She bolted from the Great Hall, Ron’s thudding footsteps right behind her. Nearly colliding with Harry on a staircase, she breathlessly asked, “What happened, Harry? Are you all right? Are you ill?”

“Where have you been?” Ron demanded.

“Come with me,” Harry returned. “Come on, I’ve got to tell you something…” Again, they raced down the first-floor corridor, peering through doorways until they at last found an empty classroom into which they dived, slamming the door behind them. Harry leaned heavily against the door, facing the other two.

“Voldemort’s got Sirius.”

_“What?!”_

“How d’you—”

“Saw it. Just now. When I fell asleep in the exam.”

“But—but where? How?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t know how, but I know exactly where. There’s a room in the Department of Mysteries full of shelves covered in these little glass balls, and they’re at the end of ninety-seven… He’s trying to use Sirius to get whatever it is he wants from in there… He’s torturing him… Says he’ll end by killing him…”

Harry’s voice was shaking as bad as his knees. Hastily, he moved to a desk and sat down on it, trying to master himself.

“How’re we going to get there?” He asked.

“G-get there?” Ron asked.

“Get to the Department of Mysteries so we can rescue Sirius!” Harry said loudly.

“But—Harry…” Ron said weakly.

“What? _What?”_ Harry asked. He couldn’t understand why they were both gaping at him as though he was asking something unreasonable of them.

“Harry,” Hermione said in a measured tone. “How, how did Voldemort get into the Ministry of Magic without anybody realizing he was there?”

“How do I know?” Harry bellowed. “The question is how _we’re_ going to get in there!”

“Harry, think about this,” Hermione said, her tone soft. “It’s five o’clock in the afternoon, the Ministry of Magic must be full of workers, how would Voldemort and Sirius have got in without being seen? They’ve got to be the two most wanted wizards in the world… You think they could get into a building full of Aurors undetected?”

“I don’t know, Voldemort used an Invisibility Cloak of something!” Harry shouted. “Anyway, the Department of Mysteries has always been empty whenever I’ve been—”

“You’ve never physically been there, Harry,” Hermione interrupted.

“These aren’t normal dreams! If they were how would you explain Ron’s dad, what was that all about, how did I know what happened to him?”

“I’m not saying they’re dreams, I’m saying it’s highly _unlikely!”_ She said, her own voice rising. “Dumbledore _told_ you if Voldemort became aware of the connection between the two of you, he’d use it to his advantage. How can you possibly be sure that he’s not? I think it’s much safer if we first make _for damn sure_ that Sirius isn’t in Grimmauld Place, because if he is, then Voldemort obviously doesn’t have him. If not, I’ll do whatever it is that we need to do in order to get to London and save him.” Her voice changed suddenly and lost its sharp quality for a soft timbre. “Voldemort knows you, Harry. He knows how to guess your actions. He knows you’re more than willing to put yourself on the line for those you care about. If he knows about the connection, and knows what you’d do, then there’s no doubt in my mind that he’d manipulate you into running right into his trap.”

Harry sobered. The classroom door opened to admit Ginny, Luna following her. “Hi,” she said uncertainly. “We recognized Harry’s voice—what are you shouting about?”

“Never you mind.” Harry said roughly.

“There’s no need to take that tone with me,” Ginny returned coolly. “I was only wondering whether I could help.”

“Well, you can’t.” Harry said shortly.

“You’re being rather rude, you know,” Luna murmured serenely.

Harry swore and turned away.

“Wait,” Hermione spoke up. “They can help, Harry.”

The two males looked at her.

“Listen, we need to establish whether or not Sirius has left headquarters—”

“I told you—” Harry began, his voice lifting.

“For argument’s and fuck’s sakes!” The lioness snarled, rounding on him. “Consider the damn possibility before we go galloping off to London! If he’s not there, we’ll go, and I’ll do whatever I can to help, but for _right now_ we need to be absolutely positive that this isn’t a trick of Voldemort’s! Does that sound logical enough?” A murmured consensus sounded around her, but she never addressed or even looked at the others, instead kept her eyes locked on Harry.

“How’re we going to check?” Harry finally asked.

“Umbridge’s fire.” She responded instantly.

“What about Fleur?”

“It’s five o’clock, Harry. She won’t be off work till six, nor will she have the time to write back to me. We’ll draw Umbridge away again but we’ll need lookouts, which is where Ginny and Luna come in.”

Though clearly struggling to understand what was going on, Ginny said immediately, “Yeah, we’ll do it,”

“Right.” Hermione nodded, beginning to pace. “One of us needs to find Umbridge and send her off in the wrong direction, keep her away from her office. Tell her, I don’t know, Peeves is up to something.”

“I’ll do it,” Ron said. “I’ll tell her Peeves is smashing up the Transfiguration department, or something. Hell, I’ll ask him to do it if I see him.”

She nodded. “Now, we need to keep students away from her office while we force entry, or someone on the Inquisitorial Squad is bound to go and tip her off…”

“Luna and I can do that,” Ginny said promptly. “We’ll tell everyone that someone’s let off a load of Garroting Gas.” Hermione paused in her pacing to look at Ginny, surprised at how readily she’d come up with the lie. Ginny shrugged. “Fred and George were planning to do it before they left.”

Hermione nodded and resumed pacing. “Okay, well then, Harry, you and I will be under the Invisibility Cloak and we’ll sneak into the office to use the fire. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be there alone since Lee’s already proved the window to be a weak spot.”

Even through his frustration, anger, and anxiety, Harry saw her offer to accompany him as a sign of solidarity and loyalty. “I… okay, thank you…”

“Now, even if we do all this, I don’t think we can bank on more than five minutes with Filch and the damned Inquisitorial Squad floating around every corner.”

“Five minutes’ll be enough, let’s go,”

“Now?” Ron asked shocked.

“Yes, now, Ron, did you think we’re going to wait for tea?” Hermione asked. “Harry, go and get the cloak, and we’ll meet you at the end of Umbridge’s corridor, okay?”

Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he threw himself from the room, sprinting away towards Gryffindor. Hermione nodded, and the remaining group followed her as she raced down the hall and up staircases like it was second-nature. The others were panting by the time they rejoined her, but the lioness continued to pace, her nostrils flared and her pupils wide, Veela energy coursing through her. 

A few minutes later, Harry joined them. “Got it,” He panted. “Ready?”

“All right. Ron—go and head Umbridge off—Ginny, Luna, if you can start moving people out of the corridor—Harry and I will get the cloak on and wait till the coast is clear.” Each took their orders readily, taking long, quick strides to get the plan in motion. Harry threw the cloak over himself and Hermione. They listened intently as Ginny shouted to encroaching students about the Garroting Gas and their mumblings as they turned back. Soon, the corridor was empty, and Ginny and Luna passed within inches of Hermione and Harry as they put the plan in motion.

As the redhead passed, Hermione whispered, “Good one, and don’t forget the signal.”

“What’s the signal?” Harry asked.

“A loud chorus of ‘Weasley Is Our King’ if they see Umbridge coming.” Hermione rushed as Harry inserted Sirius’s knife in the crack between the wall and door. The lock clicked open and they entered the office. Other than the garish kittens basking in the sunlight on their plates, the room was lifeless, bringing Hermione to sigh heavily in relief.

“I thought she might have added extra security after the second niffler.”

They pulled the cloak off. Hermione hurried to the window and stood out of sight, peering down into the grounds below, her wand drawn. Harry fell to his knees before the fireplace with a handful of powder and once again found himself staring into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. It appeared empty.

“Sirius?!” He shouted. “Sirius, are you there?!” His voice echoed, but there was no answer except a tiny scuffling sound to the right of the fire. “Who’s there?” He called, wondering if it was just a mouse.

Kreacher came creeping into view. He looked delighted about something, though he seemed to have sustained a nasty injury to both hands which were heavily bandaged.

“It’s the Potter boy’s head in the fire,” Kreacher informed the empty kitchen. “What has he come for, Kreacher wonders?”

“Where’s Sirius, Kreacher?” Harry demanded.

The house-elf gave a wheezy chuckle. “Master has gone out, Harry Potter.”

“Where’s he gone? Where’s he gone, Kreacher?”

Kreacher merely cackled.

“I’m warning you! What about Lupin, or Mad-Eye? Any of them, are any of them here?”

“Nobody here except Kreacher!” said the elf gleefully. “Kreacher thinks he will have a little chat with his mistress now, yes, he hasn’t had a chance in a long time, Kreacher’s master has been keeping him away from her—”

“WHERE HAS SIRIUS GONE?!” Harry yelled after the retreating figure of the elf. “Has he gone to the Department of Mysteries?!”

Kreacher paused. “Master does not tell poor Kreacher where he is going,” The elf returned quietly.

“But you know! Don’t you? You know where he is!”

Kreacher released his loudest cackle yet. “Master will not return from the Department of Mysteries! Kreacher and his mistress are alone again!” He scurried forward and disappeared through the door to the hall.

“You—!” Before Harry had the chance to utter a single curse or insult, he felt a great pain at the top of his head, inhaled a lot of ash and smoke, and found himself being dragged backwards through the flames until, with horrible abruptness, he was staring up into the wide pallid face of Dolores Umbridge, who had dragged him from the fire by his hair and was now bending his neck back as far as it would go, as though she was going to slit his throat.

“You think,” she whispered. “That after two nifflers I was going to let one more foul, scavenging creature enter my office without my knowledge? I had Stealth Sensoring Spells placed all around my doorway after the last one got in, you foolish boy. Take his wand!” She barked behind her. Harry felt a hand grope around in his pocket and remove his wand. “Hers too. You’d think that four-to-one odds would have taken her wand already,” she tsked under her breath.  

“Ah! Son of a bitch!” a male voice yelled, followed by the sounds of furniture being shoved around, joints popping as they were forced into unhealthy positions, and threats of curses from other voices.

“Don’t fight, Hermione!” Harry yelled, knowing full and well she could easily overpower whoever was holding her captive for he had practically watched her grow in both height and build after her acceptance. “They might—break your wand!” He changed his words at the last moment, from ‘find out about Fleur.’

A growl served as a response, but any sound of struggle ceased.

“No need to speak to her, Potter!” Umbridge barked. “And you, watch your tongue.”

“But she—”

“I will not tolerate a dirty mouth. If you need assistance restraining _her,_ feel free to call a comrade.”

Hermione flexed her muscles so the Slytherins who had locked their arms around her own could feel the power there. She was pulled taunt by every sinew and ligament, her body ready to burst forth with unrestrained strength. But she resisted. The time would come.

“I want to know why you are in my office.” Umbridge said lowly, addressing Harry.

“I was—trying to get my Firebolt!” Harry croaked.

“Liar.” She tightened her hold on his hair and shook his head. He could now see Hermione being restrained by two wizards, who were surprisingly large, but certainly no match for her. He could even hear them whispering to one another about how bloody strong she was. Malfoy leaned against the window, tossing Harry’s wand into the air and catching it. “Your Firebolt is under strict guard in the dungeons, as you very well know, Potter. You had your head in my fire. With whom were you trying to communicate?”

“No one—” Harry managed, struggling against her hold.

_“Liar!”_ Umbridge shouted. She threw him from her and he slammed into her desk where it had been kicked aside by Hermione.

There was a commotion outside and several more Slytherins entered, each gripping Ron, Ginny, Luna, and—to Harry and Hermione’s bewilderment—Neville, who was trapped in a chokehold by Crabbe and looked in imminent danger of suffocation. All four had been gagged.

“Got ‘em all,” Warrington reported, shoving Ron forward. “That one,” he poked a thick finger at Neville, “Tried to stop me taking her,” he pointed at Ginny who was trying to kick the shins of the Slytherin restraining her. “So I brought him along too.”

“Good, good,” Umbridge returned. “Well it looks as though Hogwarts will shortly be a Weasley-free zone, doesn’t it?”

Malfoy laughed loudly. Umbridge smiled and settled herself in a chintz armchair.

“So, Potter,” she said. “You stationed lookouts around my office and sent this buffoon,” she gestured at Ron, “To tell me the poltergeist was wreaking havoc in the Transfiguration department, when I knew perfectly well he was busy smearing ink on all the eyepieces of the school telescopes, Mr. Filch having just informed me so. Clearly, it was very important for you to talk to somebody. Was it Albus Dumbledore? Or the half-breed, Hagrid? I doubt it was Minerva McGonagall, I hear she’s still far too weak to talk to anyone… what about the other savage half-human, Fleur Delacour? Have you lied to me about her?”

Hermione stiffened and shouted, “She’s quarter-Veela! And if you knew the pain it took to be born a pureblood—”

“Each and every time, it’s always ‘quarter-Veela.’ She’s less than human. Isn’t half more than she deserves?” Umbridge sneered.

“There’s pride with being Veela.” Hermione spit. “Fleur does not wish to take pride that isn’t owed to her, for she is quarter, and thus unfit for the pride of half.”

“Pride. There is no pride in being less-than—”

“Being Veela is more!” Hermione snarled, lunging forth from her captors. Even with their arms tight around her, she very nearly ripped away. “They possess ancient magic, powerful magic, stronger than yours! But they do not see themselves as more and you as less, they see wizards as equals!”

Umbridge ignored her and turned her attention back to Harry. “Who was it you we trying to speak with?”

“It’s none of your business who I talk to.” Harry snarled, praying Hermione would keep silent. He met her eyes, pleading her, and a look of extreme distaste deepened her already fierce expression. He could see traces of the Veela beginning to show in the curl of her lip and the fire in her eyes and begged every god that Umbridge couldn’t see it.

The headmistress’s slack face seemed to tighten. “Very well, Mr. Potter. I’ve given you the chance to tell me freely. You refused. I have no alternative but to force you. Draco, fetch Professor Snape.”

Malfoy pushed off the way and stowed Harry’s wand inside his robes before he stalked from the room smugly. Harry couldn’t bring himself to care, for he had just remembered something he couldn’t believe he’d been so foolish to forget—there was another Order member left a Hogwarts. Another he hadn’t cared to think of. Snape.

There was silence in the office except for the fidgeting and scuffling from the Slytherins as they tried to keep their captives under control. Ron’s lip was bleeding onto Umbridge’s carpet as he struggled against Warrington’s half nelson. Ginny was still trying to stamp on the feet of the sixth-year Slytherin girl who had both her upper arms in a tight grip. Neville was slowly turning purple in the face while tugging at Crabbe’s arm. Luna stood limply by the side of her captor, who looked relieved she wasn’t fighting like the others. Another Slytherin had caught Hermione, joining the other two restraining her.

Harry looked back at Umbridge, who was watching him closely. He fought to keep his face smooth and neutral as he heard approaching footsteps. Malfoy entered, followed closely by Snape.

“You wanted to see me, Headmistress?” Snape asked, glancing at all the struggling students with an air of indifference.

“Ah, Professor Snape,” Umbridge said, smiling and rising from her seat. “Yes, I would like another bottle of Veritaserum, as quick as you can, please.”

“You took my last bottle to interrogate Potter,” he said, surveying her coolly through his greasy curtains of black hair. “Surely you did not use it all? I told you three drops would be sufficient.”

Umbridge flushed. “You can make more, can’t you?” she asked, her voice becoming sweeter as it always did when she was furious.

“Certainly,” Snape replied, his lip curling. “It takes a full moon cycle to mature, so I should have it ready for you in around a month.”

“A month?” Umbridge squeaked. “A _month?_ But I need it this evening, Snape! I have just found Potter using my fire to communicate with a person or persons unknown!”

“Really?” said Snape, showing interest for the first time as he glanced at Harry. “It doesn’t surprise me. Potter has never shown much inclination to follow school rules.”

His cold, dark eyes were boring into Harry’s, who met his gaze unblinkingly, concentrating hard on what he’d seen during the exam, willing Snape to look into his mind and see it.

“I wish to interrogate him!” repeated Umbridge angrily, forcing Snape to look at her and away from Harry. “I wish you to provide me with a potion that will force him to tell me the truth!”

“I have already told you,” Snape returned smoothly. “I have no further stocks of Veritserum. Unless you wish to poison Potter—and I assure you I would have the greatest sympathy for you if you did—I cannot help you. The only trouble is that most venoms act too fast to give the victim much time for truth-telling…”

“You are on probation!” shrieked Umbridge, and Snape looked back at her, his eyebrows raised slightly. “You are being deliberately unhelpful! I expected better, Lucius Malfoy always speaks most highly of you! Now get out of my office!”

Snape gave her an ironic little bow and turned to leave. Harry knew his last chance of letting the Order know what was going on was walking out of the door.

“He’s got Padfoot!” Harry yelled. “He’s got Padfoot at the place it’s hidden!”

Snape had stopped with his hand on Umbridge’s door handle.

“Padfoot?” cried Umbridge who looked eagerly from Snape to Harry. “What is Padfoot? Where is what hidden? What does he mean, Snape?”

Snape looked at Harry, his face blank. Harry could not tell if he understood or not, but he did not dare speak more plainly in front of Umbridge.

“I have no idea,” said Snape coolly. “Potter, when I want nonsense shouted at me, I’ll give you a Babbling Beverage. And Crabbe, loosen your hold a little, if Longbottom suffocates, it will mean a lot of tedious paperwork, and I am afraid I’ll have to mention it on your reference if ever you apply for a job.”

He closed the door behind him with a snap, leaving Harry in a state of turmoil worse than before. Snape had been his very last hope. He looked at Umbridge, who seemed to be feeling the same way, her chest heaving with rage and frustration.

“Very well…” she pulled out her wand. “Very well… I am left with no alternative… This is more than a matter of school discipline… yes… This is a Ministry issue…”

She seemed to be talking to herself into something. She kept shifting her weight from foot to foot, staring at Harry, beating her wand against her palm, breathing heavily. Powerlessness settled over Harry as he thought of his wand resting in Malfoy’s pocket.

“You are forcing me, Potter…” Umbridge continued. “I do not want to… but sometimes circumstances justify the use… I am sure the Minister will understand that I had no choice… The Cruciatus Curse should loosen your tongue…”

“No!” Hermione shrieked, again lunging forward and very nearly tearing free from the arms around her. “It’s illegal! The Minister wouldn’t want you to break the law!”

“What Cornelius doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” said Umbridge, who was now panting as she pointed her wand at different parts of Harry’s body, trying to determine which would hurt the most. “He never knew I ordered the dementors after Potter last summer, but he was delighted to be given the chance to expel him, all the same…”

“That was _you?”_ gasped Harry. _“You_ sent dementors after me?”

_“Somebody_ had to act! They were all bleating about silencing you somehow—discrediting you—but I was the one who actually _did_ something. Only you wiggled out of that one, didn’t you, Potter? Not today, though, not now…”

And taking a deep breath she cried, _“Cruc—”_

“NO!” Hermione shouted, interrupting the curse. “Harry—Harry, we’ll have to tell her!” Tears sprang forth from her eyes, cascading down her face.

“No way!” Harry yelled in return, turning as much as he could to glance at her.

“We’ll have to, Harry, she’ll force it out of you anyway… what’s the point...?” Even as she cried, Harry saw the twinkle of deception flicker in her eyes, and with the eye that wasn’t visible to anyone else in the room, for all eyes were trained on her, he threw a questioning glance and winked. She subtly nodded her head, disguising it cleverly as a sob wracking her body.

“Well, well, well!” said Umbridge, pleased and triumphant. “Little Miss Question-All is going to give us some answers! Come on then, girl, come on!”

Ron tried to shout a protest around his gag, as did most of the other restrained students.

“I’m—I’m sorry everyone, but—I can’t stand it—” 

“That’s right, that’s right, girl!” Umbridge encouraged, seizing Hermione by the shoulders and pushed her into the armchair. To Harry’s great surprise, she did not spring back up and fight, but remained there, crying. “Now, with whom was Potter trying communicate just now?”

“Well,” Hermione gulped. “He was _trying_ to contact Professor Dumbledore.” All movements of struggle and protests died from the other Gryffindors. Ron and Harry exchanged a quick glance, one that was received as _Follow her lead; she has a plan._ It was relayed to the best of their ability to the others, and presently, the protests picked back up again to maintain deception.

“You know where Dumbledore is?” Umbridge said, nearly pouncing.

“Well, no! We’ve been looking for him, though… We need to tell him something important!”

“Yes? What was it you wanted to tell him?”

“We… we wanted to tell him… it’s ready!” She sobbed. Harry fought to keep his expression void of his shock and every bit betrayed, even lifting his own voice in protest.

“What’s ready? What’s ready, girl?” Umbridge asked, shaking Hermione’s shoulders.

“The… the weapon…”

Umbridge’s eyes swelled in their sockets. “Weapon? You have been developing some method of resistance? A weapon you could use against the Ministry? On Dumbledore’s orders, of course?”

“Y-y-yes,” Hermione gasped. “But he had to leave before it was finished and n-now we’ve finished it for him, and we c-c-can’t find him to tell him!”

“What kind of weapon is it?” Umbridge demanded.

“We… we don’t really understand it… we just did w-w-what he told us t-to do…”

Umbridge straightened, looking exultant. “Lead me to the weapon.”

“I’m not showing… them.” Hermione said shrilly, looking at the Slytherins.

“It is not your place to set conditions.” said Umbridge harshly.

“Fine! Let them see! I hope they use it on you! In fact, I wish you’d invite loads and loads of people to come and see! That would serve you right—oh I’d love it if the whole school knew where it was and how to use it, so if you annoyed them, they could sort you out!”

Those words seemed to have an impact on Umbridge. She glanced at the Inquisitorial Squad suspiciously, her eyes bulging on Malfoy who was too slow to disguise the look of eagerness and greed on his face. Umbridge contemplated silently for a long moment before she spoke.

“All right. Let’s make this just you and me… and we’ll take Potter, too shall we? Get up, now—”

“Professor,” said Malfoy eagerly. “I think some of the squad should come with you to look after—”

“I am a fully qualified Ministry official, Malfoy, do you really think I cannot manage two wandless teenagers alone?” Hermione choked down a laugh of spite. One of those wandless teenagers shared her soul with a Veela, making her a larger threat than anyone truly knew. “In any case, it does not sound like this weapon is something that schoolchildren should see. You will remain here until I return and make sure none of these” she gestured to Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna, “escape.”

“All right.” Malfoy returned, looking sulky and disappointed.

“And the two of you can go ahead in front of me and show me the way,” said Umbridge, pointing at Harry and Hermione with her wand. “Lead on…”

 


	19. The Ministry of Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dearly beloved! I'm super excited to hear your thoughts on this chapter, and even more so the one that follows. I leave quite a cliffhanger, so be warned. Also, my chapters are getting seriously outrageously long. So settle in and let the plot roll over you because I'm a heartless, relentless person. So far, I've only had one response on Tumblr about the Kingdom fanfiction, so please raise your voice and drop me a line on what you think. It's coming along much slower than I imagined it would, and my life is about to get really busy really soon. Nonetheless, I will not abandon this series, no matter how much sweat and tears it takes. AND A FINAL NOTE: something fucked up with the last chapter, a few very important things were not copied and pasted for some reason or another. So if the last thing you remember about the previous chapter involves an unfinished sentence from Hermione, go back and reread from that point. Now, with that said, go on and enjoy yourselves! I hope to hear back.  
> Much love,   
> RC

Harry walked briskly beside Hermione, desperate to appear as though he knew where she was taking them. He didn’t know what kind of plan she had in mind, or if it was even feasible, but she moved with a determined air, her tears had ceased, and there wasn’t trace of red in her eyes or rough quality to her voice, confirming his suspicions that her crying had been staged, but beautifully so. They passed the entrance to the Great Hall, hearing the sounds of chitchat and cutlery as students dined and celebrated the end of exams, carefree…

Hermione heeded them no mind. She continued on with measured steps, covering the ground easily while Harry tried to maintain the façade of knowledge. The lioness marched straight through the large front doors, and down the stone steps into the balmy evening air. The sun was falling towards the tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest now as they followed Hermione, Umbridge’s stumpy legs forced to take four steps to match Hermione’s two. She led them into the forest without hesitation, Harry fighting to remain by her side as he stumbled over roots and fallen branches.

“Hermione!” He whispered. “Where are we going?”

“It shouldn’t be far now!” Hermione called over her shoulder to Umbridge, ignoring Harry’s question entirely.

“Good,” Umbridge huffed behind them, her wand slick with sweat as she struggle to keep up.

“Keep your voice down, we could be heard!” Harry hissed.

“I know; that’s what I want. You’ll see…”

 Hermione quickened her pace, smiling to herself when she heard Umbridge’s breath turn laborious behind her. She felt adrenaline course through her body, her steps sure-footed and brisk. She yearned to run, to allow the newly awakened Veela in her free reign; the urge was so great, her body shook with it. Forcing the longing aside, she continued her trek, barely slowing when Umbridge commanded. Her muscles shook as they were so tightly flexed, her breath came short, almost snorting through her nose as horses do when they want to run.

Soon, they were deep in the Forbidden Forest, the late afternoon light barely trickling down through the thick canopy above. She paused, scanning her surroundings carefully.

“Are we close?” Umbridge asked breathily.

_She can’t hear them,_ Hermione thought with a mischievous smile. “Yes we’re very near, now,” She replied, rooting herself to the earth beneath her feet. More than the distant footfalls pounding softly against her eardrums, the severed rope at the base of a wide tree demanded her undivided attention.

Before she could spare any further thought to the scene, the footfalls grew louder, thundering through the atmosphere.

“What in the name of—”

Hermione had expected this, but even the expectation had not been enough to prepare her for the reality. An arrow flew and struck a tree to serve as a warning. The centaurs soon stood before them in enormous ranks, preventing them from continuing deeper into the forest even if they’d wished.

“Who dares enter this forest?” the Chief centaur thundered from the head of the herd.

“Harry Potter, Dolores Umbridge, and I am Hermione Granger,” the lioness spoke, holding her palms out before her to show that she was unarmed. At the sounding of her own name, the Chief’s expression melted from defensive and angry to thoughtful and curious.

“The mated love of Fleur Delacour? We saw your stars several moons ago.” Hermione smirked impishly at Umbridge’s gasp upon hearing the words ‘mated love’ and again at Fleur’s name.

“Yes. My mate was very familiar in these trees last year,” Umbridge squawked behind her.

“You filthy, Mudblooded, half—”

“Shut up, Umbridge.” Harry growled. She made a move to strike him, and another arrow flew and very nearly hit her. She squealed and recoiled away from the lion.

“Indeed; I remember her fondly.” The chief continued, as though Umbridge’s disruption hadn’t occurred. “But you do not come here with her, and you come against your will.” He said, looking to Umbridge where she stood with her wand at Hermione’s back.

“Why, toad, do you force foals here?” Another centaur asked.

Umbridge looked as though he’d stuck her. “You filthy half-breed!” she screeched. “I am a Ministry official—!”

_“What did you call me?”_  The black centaur named Bane thundered, pulling his bowstring tighter.

Umbridge continued as though she hadn’t heard him. “Law Fifteen B clearly states ‘Any attack by a magical creature who is deemed to have near-human intelligence, and therefore considered responsible for its actions—”

“‘Near human intelligence’?” repeated Magorian, pawing at the ground. “We consider that a great insult, human! Our intelligence far outstrips your own—”

“What are you doing in our forest, human?” bellowed another centaur. “Why do you come here?”

_“Your_ forest?” Umbridge retorted. “I would remind you that you only live here because the Ministry allows you certain areas of land—”

An arrow flew so close to Umbridge’s head that it caught her mousy hair in passing. She let out an earsplitting scream while the other centaurs bellowed their approval.

“Whose forest is it now, human?” Bane called loudly, nocking another arrow.

“Filthy half-breeds!” she screamed, lifting her wand. “Beasts! Uncontrolled animals!” She waved her wand, throwing a curse at Bane. A rope constricted around his throat, squeezing his trachea closed. Hermione ran to him as he fell, her hands pulling fruitlessly at the unyielding bind. Harry hit the ground as arrows flew from their bows, streaks of brown wood and strikingly white feathers racing towards their target. Umbridge easily deflected them and made to cast another spell. Just as she began to move her wand, a very large hand lifted her high into the air. Grawp hoisted the failing woman high, studying her curiously and almost without a care to the mayhem around his feet. Hermione lunged for the professor’s fallen wand, and even though it did not want to obey her, it reluctantly carried out her wishes as the rope fell from the centaur’s neck. He leaped to his hooves, drawing quick breaths as he took up his bow and skillfully slid an arrow into place.

The other centaurs had already charged forward, and more followed in their wake, so great was their numbers. Hermione dropped the wand to the ground again, where it was soon crushed under the assault of the arriving centaurs. Arrows flew at poor Grawp, where he still held Umbridge by the collar. They found their marks, but seemed to do no harm to the giant, only frightened him greatly as he soon dropped the woman and cowered against a large tree, leaving her to the mercy of the centaurs where they turned and ran into the forests, taking the loudly protesting witch with them. Their footfalls and her cries were swallowed by the tress, leaving no token to follow if one so wished.

Hermione slowly approached the giant, offering her hand to him. He extended his index finger and touched her hand gently, smiling shyly at her. After thoroughly inspecting him and making sure he had not been seriously injured, she returned his smile before she turned her gaze to Harry, who sported a streak of dirt over his cheek, and nursed a wound on his arm from where he’d dived out of the centaur’s path, his hair tousled and messy.

“Well, what now?” He asked.

“We go to Ministry,” She answered simply, as if reciting a homework assignment.

“Don’t you need to contact Fleur?” He asked softly.

At the sound of the Veela’s name, Hermione’s heart lurched in her chest. Begrudgingly, she shook her head.

“There’s no time,” she managed. “I’m sure the Order will be there eventually anyway, no doubt she’ll be with them, if they want her there or not.” She spoke quickly, more to convince herself than Harry. Together, they turned and ran, the lion struggling to keep up with his best friend as she finally allowed herself the freedom to sprint. He’d never seen her move so freely, or so gracefully; where roots stretched out to trip him, she leaped effortlessly over them. Where the earth grew mossy and slick, he slowed his pace, but she quickened hers as she shifted from running with her full foot to her toes, nimbly navigating the treacherous ground, while Harry stumbled behind her.

Finally, they found the end of the forest, and raced over to Hagrid’s cabin. There, they met Ron, Ginny, Neville and Luna, each sporting varying wounds given by either fists or nails. Hermione all but pranced about on the balls of her feet when their proximity had forced her to stop running, while Harry leaned his hands on his knees, gulping air.

“How did you escape?” Hermione asked, glancing between the newcomers.

“Well Malfoy said he was hungry, and I had a bunch of Puking Pastilles, and the brainless lot ate them all! Umbridge’s office was a right mess by the time we left…” Ron answered grimacing, returning Harry’s and Hermione’s wands to them. His lip was bleeding badly, but Hermione closed it with a single flourish of her wand; there wasn’t much she could do for the others’ bruises, and she made a mental note to study up on the subject the next chance she got.

“So, anyone have any ideas of how we’re gonna get to the Ministry?” Ron piped.

“Well, we’ll have to fly, won’t we?” Luna asked serenely.

“Okay, Harry said irritably. “First of all, ‘we’ aren’t doing anything if you’re including yourself in that, and second, Ron’s the only one who’s got a broomstick that’s not under lock and key and security troll.”

“I’ve got a broom!” Ginny offered loudly.

“Yeah, but you’re not coming.” Ron growled.

“Excuse me, but I care about what happens to Sirius just as much as you do!” Ginny returned, her jaw set.

“You’re too—” Harry began.

“I’m three years older than you were when you fought You-Know-Who over the Sorcerer’s Stone, and it’s because of me that Malfoy’s stuck in Umbridge’s office with giant flying bogeys attacking him—”

“Yeah, but—”

“And we all were in the D.A. together,” said Neville quietly. “It was all supposed to be about fighting You-Know-Who, wasn’t it? And this is the first chance we’ve got to do something real—or was that all just a game or something?”

“No—of course it wasn’t—”

“Then we should come too,” Neville said simply. “We want to help.”

“That’s right,” said Luna happily.

Harry traded a glance with Ron. He knew the redhead was thinking the same thing he was: If he could have chosen any members of the D.A. in addition to himself, Ron and Hermione to join him in the attempt to rescue Sirius, he would not have picked Ginny, Neville, or Luna.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, we still don’t know how we’re going to get there—”

“I thought we’d settled that?” Luna interjected. “We’re flying!”

“I suppose we’re going to ride on the back of a Kacky Snorgle or whatever it is?” Ron demanded.

“The Crumple-Horned Snorkack can’t fly,” said Luna in a dignified voice. “But _they_ can, and Hagrid says they’re very good at finding places their riders are looking for.” She finished, pointing to a spot in the forest behind Harry.

Harry whirled around, and from between a few trees, he saw ghostly white eyes staring back at him. The thestrals watched them carefully, almost curiously.

“Yes!” Harry shouted, approaching them swiftly, but slowly enough not to startle them. How could he ever thought them ugly? The one nearest to him tossed its head and nickered softly. He heard the collective gasps from the others behind him, their eyes wide and in desperate search for the source of the noise.

“Is it those mad horse things…?” Ron asked uncertainly, glancing around.

“How many?”

“Just two,” Luna answered dreamily.

“Well, we’ll need three,” Hermione said with conviction.

“I think there are six of us, actually,” Luna returned calmly, counting.

“Don’t be stupid, we can’t all go!” Harry said angrily. “Look, you three,” –he pointed at Neville, Ginny, and Luna—“you’re not involved in this, you’re not—”

They burst into protest. Harry scar gave another, more painful twinge. Every moment they delayed was precious; he did not have time to argue.

“Okay, fine, it’s your choice,” he conceded curtly, hand still clamped over his forehead. “But unless we can find more thestrals you’re not going to be able—”

 “More will come,” Ginny interjected. “In case you haven’t noticed, you and Hermione are covered in blood. Hagrid called them out of the forest by using raw meat.” She said confidently.

Hermione felt a sweep of something wet over her forearm where she’d been cut by the thorns, but when she looked, nothing was there. With wide eyes, she slowly turned her head to look at Harry. He only nodded. Just as slowly, she looked back to her arm, and felt another sweep. Hastily, she scrambled backwards, and cast another glance to her wound, only to find that it was healed. She shivered, and drew her wand, closing every wound she could find on her body before she performed the same spells on Harry.

Even with the wounds closed, the invisible tongue continued lapping at the blood that seeped in to her robes, and finally, Hermione said, “Harry, just tell me where the beast is so I can get up and it’ll stop licking at me.”

Harry guided her hands to the horse’s flank, and with a surprisingly effortless grace, she leaped upon the thestral. She adjusted her robes and looked expectantly at Harry.

“What?”

“Who taught you how to ride?”

“Fleur,” Again, an enormous wave of guilt swept over her. _There isn’t time._ “Her family has horses, we spent all summer riding. Come on, there must be more by now, we need to get going.”

Harry looked back, and sure enough, more thestrals were emerging from the trees, sniffing at the air in interest. He led Neville and Ron over to two thestrals, while Luna was already sitting sidesaddle, as though she did this every day. For all he knew, she did.

“All right, everyone ready?” Hermione asked. There was a nervous murmuring of consent and a firmer settling of knees and hands in the soft manes of the horses.

Harry nodded, and looked down at his thestral. “Ministry of Magic, visitors’ entrance, London, then… er… if you know where to go…”

For a moment, there was stillness and silence. Then, suddenly, the thestrals leaped into flight, their black wings spread wide to catch the wind.

Hermione’s heart leaped into her throat, anticipation and anxiety coursing through her body. In complete honesty, this sensation was hardly different from riding Shamin, although she’d only had a few trips upon the Horntail. But at least she could _see_ Shamin, a solid, living, beautiful creature, whereas the thestral remained invisible, giving her the distinct feeling of flying over the grounds without any visual data to comfort her. The thestral was solid, no doubt, but her brain was in overdrive, every instinct screaming to return to the safe earth, uncertain and uncaring of the magical means making her airborne. Logic, as broken as it might be, combated the insanity in her brain and bloodstream, but it was a losing battle. A scream bubbled out of her throat as they cleared the treetops, the thestrals soaring faster.

Thankfully, her scream was not the only one. Ginny and Ron released their own yells, the wind swallowing them into silence. Hermione buried her face into the thestral’s mane, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. Several long minutes passed before her heart calmed, and drew away from the horse’s mane. Twilight had fallen; the lights of villages were twinkling below, combating the encroaching darkness.

They arrived in London much sooner than they had expected. With hardly a jolt, despite their angle of descent, they landed smoothly, until Ron nearly threw himself from the beast onto the hard pavement.

“Never again… never _ever_ again…” he muttered.

Hermione dismounted as well, her legs shaking from both adrenaline and the lack of riding over the school year, but paid it no mind, instead searched the surrounding alleyway for any sign of life. Other than the thestrals foraging in the dumpster for bits of food, there wasn’t a sound.

“Where do we go from here, then?” Luna asked softly, her hair slightly windswept but otherwise she looked completely at ease.

“Over here,” Harry answered, ushering them all into a small, battered telephone box. They all squashed themselves in together, and Hermione realized just how much she’d grown since the Christmas holiday. She nearly matched Ron, who towered over everyone in the small space. Her body had become thick with muscle but her frame was still lean, and gratefully so, for there was hardly room to breathe in the box.

“Whoever’s nearest to the receiver, dial six two four four two!” Harry said.

Ron did so, his arm bent at a rather interesting angle. When the last number had been dialed, the cool female voice sounded.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

Harry rattled their names off in quick procession, stating their business as a rescue mission. The voice thanked him, and asked them to pin the badges that fell from the coin slot to the front of their robes. Hermione scooped them up and doled them out, chuckling nervously as she read:

HERMIONE GRANGER

Rescue Mission

“Visitors to the Ministry,” The voice continued. “You are required to submit to a search and present your wands for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium.”

“Fine!” Harry barked. “Now can we _move?”_ Finally, the bottom of the box descended at an incredibly slow pace, clicking as it sank into the earth. A chink of soft golden light hit their feet and, widening, rose up their bodies. Harry bent his knees and held his wand at the ready, straining to see if anyone was waiting for them in the Atrium. It was empty, and eerily so.

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening,” The voice said. The door opened, and Harry toppled out, Neville nearly falling on top of him. The others filed out as well, Hermione’s eyes dilated in the dim light as they searched every nook and cranny.

“Come on,” Harry said after he picked himself off the floor, and the six of them ran down the hall, Hermione easily keeping pace with Harry as he led the charge. She felt the inner Veela begin to come forth again, barely satisfied from her earlier run. She yearned to open her stride and sprint as low growls began slipping from her lips as she fought it. Her senses surged into hyper-awareness, the light too bright, the thudding footsteps of the others behind her pounded in her ears, the office-scent of the Atrium thick in her nostrils. They passed the security desk, and behind it, no one sat. Hermione stuttered in her steps, studying the desk carefully but soon she had passed too far to spare it any further thought.

Harry seemed to share her weariness and foreboding, for he quickened his pace, thankfully allowing her to open her own. They reached the other side uninterrupted, and Harry mashed the nearest down button. The lift clattered into sight, and they all crammed in again. Harry stabbed the number nine button, and the lift began to descend, jangling and rattling. Soon, the cool female voice sounded again.

“Department of Mysteries,” The grate slid open, and again, the six stepped out. Nothing moved in the corridor, save for the flickering torches, illuminating the black door Harry had dreamt about for so long.

“Let’s go,” he whispered, and wrenched the door open. They filed in, and stood in a large circular room, identical black doors were set at intervals all around the room. “Someone shut the door,” Harry murmured, and regretted it the moment Neville obeyed, for the doors spun around in the room, and no longer could he tell from which they entered.

“How’re we going to get back out?” Neville asked quietly.

“Well, that doesn’t matter right now,” Hermione returned softly, patting his back gently in comfort. “Let’s try some doors.” Harry nodded, and wrenched open the door directly in front of him. This room was quite empty expect for a few desks and an enormous tank filled with deep-green water, containing a number of pearly white objects that drifted lazily though the waters.

“Are they fish?” Ginny asked.

“Aquavirius maggots!” Luna said excitedly. “Dad said the Ministry—”

“No,” Hermione breathed quietly. “They’re brains.”

_“Brains?”_ Sure enough, upon closer inspection, Harry could very clearly see that the lioness was right. “This isn’t right, let’s just get out of here.”

A great consensus was met, and the left the room as quickly as they could. Hermione was the last to exit, and before she closed the door, raised her wand and said, _“Flagrate!”_ A fiery X appeared over the door just as it clicked shut. As soon as it did, the walls rumbled again, and the doors rotated, but now there was a great streak of red from Hermione’s flames.

“Good thinking,” Harry murmured, and opened another door. This room was much bigger than the other, rectangular, dimly lit, and floor the room fell in sharply as stone steps and benches made up most of it. At the center, there was a raised stone dais, and upon this dais, an ancient stone archway stood, unsupported by the surrounding walls. Hanging within it, a tattered, black veil fluttered gently despite the utter stillness of the room.

Harry seemed to take great interest in the veil, and began to approach it immediately.

“Who’s there?” Harry whispered, picking his way down the stone.

“Careful!” Hermione hissed.

“Sirius?” Harry murmured, standing very near the veil. He had the strangest feeling that someone was standing right behind the veil on the other side of the archway. Gripping his wand tightly, Harry edged around the dais, only to find himself alone.

Hermione found fear running through her system. “Let’s go, Harry this isn’t right. We need to go.” But he did not heed her words. She lifted her voice again, more forcefully this time. “Harry, come on, we need to go!”

“Okay,” he said, but made no move. Hermione scrambled down the stone, less gracefully than she’d moved in a long time, and stood very near to him.

“What are you saying?” He asked, very loudly, so that the room echoed his question.

“No one’s saying anything, Harry.” Hermione murmured, her eyes locked on him. Her hand curled around his arm. “We need to leave.”

“Someone’s behind there,” he said, twisting free of her grasp. “Is that you, Ron?”

“I’m right here, mate,” The redhead replied, appearing beside Hermione.

“Can’t anyone else hear them?” He asked, his eyes never leaving the veil.

“Harry there’s no one there, we’re here for Sirius!” She grabbed his arm again and wrenched him away from the veil, for one more step forward and he would have fallen through the veil.

“Sirius…” He murmured, finally looking at her. “Yes,” His eyes focused on her, the glaze melting away. “Let’s go.” Hermione dragged him away, up the steps to the door where they entered. She cast another fiery X and the room spun again.

“What d’you reckon that arch was?” Harry asked while the doors spun.

“I don’t know but whatever it was, it was dangerous.” Hermione growled, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Despite her growing fear, the Veela remained restless, unsatisfied, yearning to fight, to hunt.

The doors came to a standstill once more, and Harry threw himself at another. It did not move.

“What’s wrong?” Neville asked.

“Locked,”

“That’s it then, isn’t it?” Ron asked. “Bound to be!”

Hermione pushed them out of her way, wand drawn. _“Alohomora!”_ The door remained closed.

“Sirius’s knife!” Harry offered, and pulled the weapon from his robes and slid it into the crack between door and wall. He threw his shoulder at it to no avail, and when he looked down at the knife, he saw that the blade had melted.

“It can’t be that one,” Hermione murmured and drew another X as Harry stowed the now-useless knife handle in his robes again. “All the doors opened in Harry’s dream. We’ll have to keep looking.”

The room spun again, and again, Harry approached a door. This time, it opened, and he knew without a doubt, that it was finally the right one.

Hermione’s eyes stung as they adjusted to the bright, dancing, diamond-sparkling light. After she’d wiped the tears from her eyes, the forms of clocks gleamed from shelves, all different kinds of clocks were gathered there.

“This way!” Harry whispered, his heart pumping frantically now that he was certain that they were on the right track. Hermione followed him readily, ignoring the numerous, wondrous items surrounding her. A few others could not ignore them however, and soon Hermione and Harry had to double-back and drag Ginny and Luna away from a crystal bell jar containing a tiny jewel-bright egg that cracked open to release a hummingbird, which was carried by an invisible current to the very top of the jar before its feathers became bedraggled and damp again. Once it had returned to the bottom of the jar, it had been enclosed in the egg again.

“Come on!” Harry hissed.

“You dawdled enough at that old arch!” Ginny returned, but followed him anyway. Behind the bell jar, another door waited.

“This is it,” Harry murmured. He glanced around at the others. They all stood stiff and straight, their wands held ready. Hermione stood nearest to him, shifting from foot to foot, nervousness absent from her eyes. The others displayed nerves easily, despite their attempt to hide it, but steadfast, loyal to Harry and the cause that brought them there.

“Open it, Harry,” Hermione murmured, nodding to the door. He nodded, and pushed; it opened easily. High as a church and filled with nothing but towering shelves covered in small, dusty, glass orbs that glimmered dully in the dim light issuing from candle brackets along the walls. Their flames were an icy blue color and shed no warmth in the room. If anything, they seemed to make the room colder. Harry edged away from the door and peered down a one of the shadowy aisles between two rows of shelves. Hermione strained her eyes and her ears, but no sound nor movement betrayed its maker.

“You said it was row ninety-seven,” the lioness murmured softly.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, casting his gaze around. His eyes landed on a glimmering silver figure that read FIFTY-THREE.

“We need to go right,” Hermione whispered back, looking down the aisle to the next row, seeing the gleaming figures of FIFTY-FOUR. “Yes, that’s it,” She said, pointing when Harry threw her glance.

“Keep your wands out,” he murmured. In complete honesty, the request was futile, for all their instincts were already commanding that they keep their weapons brandished protectively in front of them. As one organism, they began creeping forward again, Hermione’s footsteps silent against the stone floor as the others’ around her seemed to echo against the walls themselves, pounding in her ears as they continued. She very nearly asked them to walk on their toes, but knew it was futile; only she could hear their footfalls anyway. They continued to make their way along the shelves, their eyes raking over the tiny, yellowing labels beneath each item. Some of the orbs contained a strange, liquid glow, others had the dull, empty quality of a blown light bulb. As they passed rows eighty-four and eighty-five, Hermione noticed Harry’s pulse hammering in his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing frequently as he swallowed.

“Ninety-seven,” He whispered as he came upon the end of the row. The small congregation halted, the absence of their footfalls rang in Hermione’s ears like a large church bell after it had finished tolling.

Before them laid nothing. Harry swept his eyes over every space, desperate to find some token of Sirius, some sign that he, or at least someone, was here.

“Harry,” Hermione murmured.

“He must be here, we just can’t see properly,” Harry muttered, frantically searching up and down the corridor.

“Harry…”

“He might be… or maybe…” as he spoke, he continued rushing along the alleys, his eyes wide and fearful.

“Harry.”

“What?” He snarled at her.

“I don’t think Sirius is here.” She said calmly, locking eyes with him.

He did not reply. No one replied. There wasn’t a sign of anyone, no struggle, no stray hair, no item pushed askew. Nothing to suggest anyone had so much as passed by, let alone dragged here against one’s will.

“Harry?” Ron called out softly. He didn’t look at his friend. He didn’t want to hear what he had to say; he didn’t want to hear, that maybe they should return to Hogwarts. He very nearly began walking down the corridor to sulk when Ron’s voice lifted again. “Have you seen this?”

Harry turned, his interest spiked. He strode back down the aisle, a disappointed expression marring his features when he saw that Ron was pointing to an orb.

“It’s… its got your name on it.” He murmured.

Harry had to strain to see the label Ron was pointing at. In spidery writing was written a date of some sixteen years previously, and below that:

S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D

Dark Lord

and (?) Harry Potter

Harry stared at it perplexed.

“What is it?” Ron asked, sounding unnerved. “What’s your name doing in here?” He spared a glance down the other shelves. “None of the rest of us are here…”

“Harry, I don’t think you should touch it,” Hermione whispered urgently as he outstretched a hand.

“Why not? It’s got my name on it.”

“Don’t, Harry,” Neville pleaded hoarsely, his face covered in a sheen of sweat.

Hermione saw the swift expression of recklessness cross his face just as she felt a peculiar sensation lift the hairs along the back of her neck and a sickly scent found its way into her senses. But it was far too late. Harry’s hand had clasped the orb, and for a moment, nothing happened.

And then a voice drawled from behind them.

“Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me.”

 


	20. Shit Gets Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't kidding when I said I'm getting bad at titling chapters, but at least this one lives up to its title. And it's ridiculously long, so settle in and prepare for open-heart surgery! I would apologize, but it'd be a lie. Also, thank you all for giving feedback, congratulating me on my engagement and enlistment, and I promise I will do all I can before basic; it truly means a lot to hear such kind words, I honestly can't express it. And of course, I hope you enjoy this chapter!  
> Much love,  
> RC

Hermione turned slowly against her instinct. Her lips drew back to bare her teeth, although she would never bare fangs, instinct demanded she show them anyway. Black shapes were emerging out of thin air all around them, blocking their way left and right. Their eyes glinted though slits in their hoods, and a dozen lit wand tips were pointing directly at them.

“Ah, so the little Mudblood has mated,” A female voice mocked. Hermione rumbled. “Oh, so scary! Too bad her little consort isn’t here to protect her…”

“That’s not why we’re here.” The voice of Lucius Malfoy was detected. “To me, Potter.” He repeated, holding his hand out to Harry.

“Where is Sirius?” Harry said, keeping the orb close to his body.

Several of the Death Eaters laughed. The female voice rang out again. “The Dark Lord always knows!”

“Always,” Malfoy echoed softly. “Now, give me the prophecy, Potter.”

“I want to know where Sirius is!” Harry thundered.

 _“I want to know where Sirius is!”_ the woman mocked. She and her fellow Death Eaters had closed in so that they were mere feet away from Harry and the others, the light from their wands burning Hermione’s sensitive eyes. She refused to allow them to water, and bore her teeth further.

“You’ve got him,” Harry said, ignoring the rising panic that was tangible to them all. “He’s here. I know he is.”

 _“The little baby woke up frightened and fort what it dweamed was twoo,”_ The woman sang in a horribly childish voice. Hermione stirred beside the lion.

“Don’t do anything,” Harry hissed to her. “Not yet—”

 The woman who had mimicked him let out a loud burst of laughter. “You hear him? Giving commands to other children as though he thinks of fighting us!”

“Oh, you don’t know Potter as well as I,” Malfoy returned softly. “He has a great weakness for heroics; the Dark Lord understands this about him. Now, _give me the prophecy, Potter.”_

“I know Sirius is here!” Harry repeated against the panic constricting in his throat. _“I know you’ve got him!”_

The Death Eaters laughed again.

“It’s time you learned the difference between life and dreams, Potter.” Malfoy returned. “Now give me the prophecy or we start using wands.”

“Go on, then,” Harry said, and as one, the six of them lifted their wands to chest-level; the Death Eaters did not strike.

“Hand over the prophecy and no one need get hurt,” said Malfoy coolly.

It was Harry’s turn to laugh.

“Yeah, right! I’ll give you this, and you’ll just let us skip off home, will you?”

Just as the words left his mouth, the female Death Eater flicked her wand, shrieking, _“Accio Prop—”_

Hermione was ready for her.

 _“Protego!”_ the lioness shouted, her shield stretching over the six of them. As the shield absorbed the spell, she redirected her wand at the other female, her eyes narrowed.

“Oh, Potter’s babies know how to play! Little bitty babies,” she growled. “Very well, then—”

“I TOLD YOU, NO!” Lucius roared. “If they smash it—!”

Hermione’s mind was racing, but she refused to break her eyes away from the female opposite her. The Death Eaters wanted this dusty, spun-glass sphere. Harry had no interest in it, if one were to judge the way he loosely held the object in his fingertips as Hermione did. She (and she was sure he shared her desire) wanted only to return them all safely back to Hogwarts, away from the terrible proximity of death they currently faced.

The female stepped forward, and Hermione brandished her wand as a warning, a growl rising in her chest. The female halted and studied her carefully. Every muscle in Hermione’s body was tense, ready, the Veela within her bloodstream thrashing, daring, _challenging_ the other to take another step forward.

Instead, she pulled off her hood and her mask, revealing the sunken, hollowed face of Bellatrix Lestrange.

“You need more persuasion?” she asked, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Very well—take the smallest one,” she order the Death Eaters beside her. “Let him watch while we torture the little girl. I’ll do it.”

The five others pressed close to Ginny, and Hermione turned her face to snarl at them, even though they did not advance. Her instinct screamed to send a hex flying, to knock them backwards with a strong jinx, but more information was needed, and had to be collected. She choked the Veela down, willing herself to remain steadfast.

Harry stood before them all, the prophecy held at his chest while his wand remained steady at the Death Eaters.

“You’ll have to smash this is you want to attack any of us,” he told Bellatrix. “I don’t think your boss will be too pleased if you come back without it, will he?”

The female did not move; merely stared at him.

“You called this a prophecy? What kind?”

Hermione pressed closer to him, shoulder to shoulder, her feet strategically placed so that her coiled muscles wouldn’t shake so visibly.

“What kind of prophecy?” Bellatrix repeated. “You jest, Harry Potter.”

“Nope, not jesting,” Harry returned, his eyes searching for a weak link in the Death Eaters, a space through which they could escape. “How come Voldemort wants it?”

Several Death Eaters let out low hisses.

“You dare speak his name?” whispered Bellatrix.

“Yeah,” Harry returned, tightening his grip on both his wand and the orb, lest another try to bewitch it from him. “Yeah, I’ve got no problem saying Vol—”

“Shut your mouth!” Bellatrix screamed. “You dare speak his name with your unworthy lips, you dare besmirch it with your half-blood’s tongue, you dare—”

“Did you know he’s a half-blood too?” Harry asked recklessly. “Voldemort? Yeah, his mother was a witch, but his dad was a Muggle—or had he been telling you lot he’s pureblood?”

_“STUPEF —!”_

“NO!” Three jets of red light took to the sky. Hermione had shot a hex to deflect Bellatrix’s, and Malfoy had done the same. The three spells converged dangerously, and whirled away down the aisle, colliding with a shelf. Multiple orbs fell from the shelves, shattering against the stone floor. Two figures, pearly white as ghosts, fluid as smoke, unfurled themselves from the fragments of broken glass upon the floor and began to speak. Their voiced vied with each other, so that only fragments of what they were saying could be heard over Malfoy’s and Bellatrix’s shouts.

 _“…at the Solstice will come a new…”_ said the figure of an old, bearded man.

“DO NOT ATTACK! WE NEED THE PROPHECY!”

“He dared—he dares—” shrieked Bellatrix. “—He stands there, filthy half-blood—”

“WAIT UNTIL WE’VE GOT THE PROPHECY!” Malfoy commanded.

 _“… and none will come after…”_ said the figure of a young woman.

The two figures that had burst from the orbs melted into the air. Nothing remained of them other than the fragments of glass upon the floor. They had, however, given Harry an idea. The problem was going to be conveying it to the others.

“You haven’t told me what’s so special about this prophecy I’m supposed to be handing over.” He said, playing for time. As subtly as he could, he moved foot slowly sideways, feeling around for someone else’s.

“Do not play games with us, Potter,” said Malfoy.

“I’m not playing games,” Harry returned, half his mind on the conversation, the other half on his wandering foot. He soon found someone’s toes and pressed down upon them. Hermione hissed softly beside him, and subtly shifted her weight so she stood halfway behind him.

“What?” she whispered.

“Dumbledore never told you that the reason you bear that scar was hidden in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries?” said Malfoy sneeringly.

“I—what?” Harry asked, having forgotten his plan for the moment.

 _“What?”_ The lioness hissed more urgently.

“Can this be?” said Malfoy, sounding maliciously delighted; some of the other Death Eaters were laughing again, and under the cover of their laughter, Harry forced words though his teeth, trying his very best not to move his lips at all.

“Smash shelves—”

“Dumbledore never told you?” Malfoy repeated. “Well, this explains why you didn’t come earlier, Potter, the Dark Lord wondered why—”

“—when I say go—”

“—you didn’t come running when he showed you the place where it was hidden in your dreams. He thought natural curiosity would make you want to hear the exact wording…”

“Did he?” said Harry. Behind him, he felt, rather than heard Hermione relaying his message to the others, though she was so quiet and unmoving, he desperately hoped the others got it clearly. He racked his brains to keep the Death Eaters distracted. “So he wanted me to come here and get it. Why?”

 _“Why?”_ Malfoy sounded incredulously delighted. “Because the only people who are permitted to retrieve a prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, Potter, are those about whom it was made as the Dark Lord discovered when he attempted to use others to steal it for him.”

“And why did he want to steal a prophecy about me?”

“About both of you, Potter, about both of you… Haven’t you ever wondered why the Dark Lord tried to kill you as a baby?”

Harry stared through the slits in Malfoy’s hood, seeing his gray eyes gleaming. Was this prophecy the reason why Harry’s parents had died, the reason he carried his scar? Was the answer to all this clutched in his hand?

“Someone made a prophecy about Voldemort and me? And he’s made me come get it for him? Why couldn’t he come get it himself?”

“Get it himself?” Bellatrix cackled. “The Dark Lord, walk into the Ministry of Magic, when they are so sweetly ignoring his return? The Dark Lord, reveal himself to Aurors, when at the moment they are wasting their time on my dear cousin?”

“So he’s got you doing his dirty work for him, has he?” Harry retorted. “Like he tried to get Sturgis to steal it—and Bode?”

“Very good, Potter, very good…” said Malfoy slowly. “But the Dark Lord knows you are not unintell—”

“NOW!” Harry yelled.

All at once, five different voices bellowed _“REDUCTO!”_ Five curses flew in five directions and the shelves opposite them exploded as they hit. The towering structures swayed as a hundred glass spheres burst apart, pearly-white figures unfurling into the air and floated there, their voices echoing from who knew what long-dead past amid the torrent of crashing glass and splintered wood now raining down upon the floor—

“RUN!” Harry yelled, and Hermione led the charge. A Death Eater reached out to grab her arm, but she deflected with one hand and landed a hard jab with the heel of the other to the nose behind the hood. A sickening crunch sounded though the air, and the cloaked figure fell back, clutching his face as blood spurted through his hood. Several tiers of wood and orbs of glass crashed down on him, bringing him down to the floor below. Hermione continued to run, her Veela pumping though her blood and with a great surge of determination, halted in her steps, allowing the others to pass her by as they ran. When Neville passed, she pick up her pace again, sending a curse flying as a hand gripped Harry’s shoulder. The hand dropped immediately as the body it was attached to hit the floor. Harry, now in lead, directed the group though a clearing, his hands over his head while Hermione continued to cast spells.

The door through which they had come was ajar straight ahead, Harry could see the glittering light of the bell jar, and pelted thorough it, the prophecy still clutched safe in his hand. The others leaped though the portal before Harry slammed it shut, Hermione growling _“Colloportus!”_ as he did. The lioness began to pace instantly, straining her ears for any sound on the other side of the door.

“Where—where are the others?” gasped Harry, looking at Hermione. “I thought they were already here!”

“They must have gone the wrong way,” Neville offered softly, ragged breaths ripping from his chest.

“Listen!” Hermione hissed, pressing herself against the sealed door.

Footsteps and shouts echoed from the other side.

“Leave Nott, _leave him, I say!_ The Dark Lord will not care for Nott’s injuries as much as loosing that prophecy! Damned, filthy, Mudblooded, Veela-breed…” Hermione stiffened and bore her teeth. “Jugson, come back here, we need to organize! We’ll split into pairs and search, and don’t forget, be gentle with Potter until we have the prophecy, you can kill the others if necessary. Bellatrix, Rodolphus, you take the left, Crabbe, Rabastan, go right—Jugson, Dolohov, the door straight ahead—Macnair and Avery, through here—Rookwood, over there—Mulciber, come with me!”

“Get away from the door,” Hermione growled, shoving them away when they hesitated. They retreated to the far end of the room, past the jar where the tiny egg was hatching and unhatching, towards the exit into the circular hallway. Just as they were nearing it, something hard and heavy collided with the door Hermione had charmed shut.

“Stand aside!” a voice barked. _“Alohomora!”_ As the door flew open, Harry, Hermione, and Neville dived under desks. The lioness strained to control her breathing, managing fairly well due to pure stubbornness, and watched the Death Eaters’ robes billow as they drew nearer.

“They might’ve run straight out through to the hall,” said a rough voice.

“Check under the desks,” said another.

Just as she saw their knees bend, Hermione sent an array of powerful hexes at them, sending one toppling backwards, and the other into a grandfather clock. She stood up beneath the desk, hauling it over on its side and cast more hexes over it, her teeth gleaming in the dim light.

 _“EXPELLIARMUS!”_ Neville cried, sending both the still-standing Death Eater’s and Harry’s wands out of their hands. Hermione had been stricken with a spell, and still slightly dazed when Harry chased the Death Eater as he went to grab his wand. Neville, horrified, commanded Harry to duck as he attempted to Stun the Death Eater. Instead, his spell hit another shelf, sending more debris falling to the floor. Just as the Death Eater snatched up his wand, Hermione was standing again, her wand already tracing a circle in the air.

 _“STUPEFY!”_ she screamed, saliva leaping like venom from her lips. The Death Eater froze, his wand just poising to cast a spell, before he fell backwards against a bell jar. Hermione expected to hear a _clunk,_ but instead, his head sank beneath the surface of the glass as if it was nothing but a soap bubble.

 _“Accio Wand!”_ Hermione commanded, and from a corner of the room beneath the rubble, Harry’s wand flew to her waiting hand obediently.

“Thanks,” he said as she returned it to him. There was a shout from a room nearby, then a crash and a scream.

“RON?” Harry yelled, turning away from the fallen Death Eaters. “GINNY? LUNA?”

More footsteps echoed down the hall, growing louder than the Hall of Prophecy they just left, and Harry knew his mistake of calling out at once.

“Come on,” Harry said, and began to sprint towards the door that stood ajar to at the other end of the room, leading back to the black hallway. Halfway to the door, it opened wider to admit two more Death Eaters.

As one, the three threw themselves into the nearest room, an office space, and just as Hermione began to seal the door, the Death Eaters had come hurtling inside.

 _“IMPEDIMENTA!”_ They shouted together, throwing them all off their feet. Hermione crashed into a bookshelf, Harry into a wall, and Neville was sent sprawling backwards over the desk.

“WE’VE GOT HIM!” yelled the Death Eater nearest to Harry. “IN AN OFFICE OFF—”

 _“Silencio!”_ Hermione cried, and the man’s voice died in his throat.

 _“Petrificus Totalus!”_ Harry shouted as the second Death Eater raised his wand. His arms and legs snapped together and he fell forward.

“Well done, Ha—” The silenced Death Eater made a quick movement with his wand and a small, purple flame crossed over Hermione’s chest. She crumpled motionless against the floor.

“HERMIONE!” Harry yelled, reaching out for her.

Neville emerged from the other side of the desk, and the Death Eater kicked hard at Neville’s head as he did. The blow broke both Neville’s wand and his nose, blood spurting from the wound as he released a loud bellow of pain. Harry tore his eyes away from Hermione and cast another Stunning spell, and the second Death Eater fell the ground as well.

Harry rushed to the fallen lioness, taking her face in his hands. Blood slowly dripped from her lower lip, her hair was sticking to her face with sweat. “Hermione…” Harry said at once, shaking her gently. “Hermione, please wake up… Please, you can’t die…” He immediately thought of Fleur, and couldn’t bear the thought of her pain, her death if Hermione was indeed dead.  

“Whaddid he do to her?” Neville asked, trying to stem the blood flowing from his nose with a sleeve.

“I… I don’t know…”

Neville groped for Hermione’s wrist, tracing along her veins until he found the proper one. “Dat’s a pulse, Harry, I’b sure id is…”

An enormous wave of relief swept over Harry and he thanked every god he knew.

“She’s alive?” He croaked.

“Yeah, I dink so…” With a look of reluctance, Neville pressed his ear to her chest for a moment before he straightened again. “Her heart’s beading.” He confirmed. Harry let out a great breath, then turned his attention to straining for the sounds of approaching footsteps. The silence confirmed there was no one about.

“Neville, we’re not far from the exit, we’re right next to that circular room. If we can just get you across it and find the right door, before any more Death Eaters show up, I’ll bet you can get Hermione up to the corridor and into the lift… then you could find someone… raise the alarm.”

“And whad are you going do do?”

“I’ve got to find the others.”

“Well, I’b going do find dem wid you,” Neville said firmly.

“But Hermione—”

“We’ll dake her wid us. I’ll carry her—you’re bedder at fighding dem dan I ab—”

Neville abruptly stood up and seized one of Hermione’s arm’s, struggling under her surprising weight as he did. Harry bit back a protest and helped Neville gather Hermione onto his back, staggering under her weight.

“Fleur’s had an impact, huh?” Harry asked, sweeping the hair from her eyes.

Neville only nodded, shifting her limp form more comfortably across his shoulders.

“Wait, you’d better take this,” Harry stopped and pressed Hermione’s wand into the Gryffindor’s hand.

“My gran’s going do kill be. Dat was by dad’s old wand…”

They ceased all talk as they made their way back to the circular hallway. To their great disappointment, Hermione’s fiery crosses has disappeared.

“Which way d’you reck—?”

Before a decision could be made, another door opened, and Ron, Ginny, and Luna toppled out of it.

“Ron!” Harry croaked. “Ginny, Luna! Are you all—”

“Harry,” Ron giggled, staggering forward, gazing at him with unfocused eyes as his hands grasped his robes.

“Ginny?” Harry said fearfully. “What happened?”

Ginny only shook her head and slid down the wall into a sitting position, panting and holding her ankle.

“I think her ankle’s broken, I heard something crack,” whispered Luna, who was bending over her and appeared unharmed. “Four of them chased us into a dark room full of planets, it was a very odd place, some of the time we were just floating in the dark—”

“And brains, Harry,” Ron giggled. “Here take a look—” he summoned a brain to him, which instantly started to wrap pale, opaque tendrils around his arms and his chest, Harry desperately trying to rid him of the object. Luna sent a strong spell at it, and finally it fell away, leaving Ron purple from lack of air.

Luna hooked her arms around Ron’s shoulders and began pulling him away from any possible danger. “Come on, let’s get you tucked away somewhere safe—”

Before she could finish her sentence, a door burst open and slammed shut again. A streak of white light blurred through the air, and materialized before Neville.

Fleur Delacour stood, her face drawn and her breathing shallow. Her eyes were fully dilated, her fangs glinting in the light as she spoke.

“Give ‘er to me.”

Neville complied without question. The Veela took the girl into her arms and easily transported her to a safe corner. Hermione was breathing evenly, but she wouldn’t move despite Fleur’s best efforts. Angry, elliptical, faceted blue eyes locked on Harry. He swallowed audibly.

“What. ‘Appened.”

“I—I’m not sure. She, she silenced a Death Eater, and even though he couldn’t speak, he sent a purple flame to her. It didn’t appear to touch her, but she’s been unconscious ever since.”

Fleur cupped Hermione’s face in her hands, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She then drew her wand, and traced a complicated series of circles over her body. Golden tendrils spread over the lioness until they were so abundant, she seemed to glow. With another gentle motion over her own wrist, blood seeped from the wound she made. The dark fluid, at the command of her wand, streamed obediently to the golden tendrils. With another flick, the blood stopped flowing, and melded with the tendrils until Hermione was encompassed in gold and crimson.

“Bring ‘er back to me,” She murmured softly. As the words were uttered, the crimson-gold coils lifted upwards and disintegrated.

Hermione opened her eyes, trying to focus on the Veela. “Fleur…” she whispered, almost dreamily As a smile tugged at her lips. Suddenly, her expression drew tighter, urgent, terrified and she bolted into an upright position, ignoring the sharp, wrenching pain in her ribs. “Fleur! It’s dangerous here, you shouldn’t—”

“Are you all right?” Fleur interrupted, studying her closely.

“Yes, I-I’m fine.”

The Veela nodded, and crushed her lips to Hermione’s briefly. “Be very, _very_ careful, or so help me God. I love you, you brave, insane, chivalrous woman.”  

Hermione murmured her love back to the Veela, and Neville returned her wand. Fleur was just beginning to heal Ginny’s broken ankle when the opposite doors burst open to admit the Death Eaters. Fleur leaped back and pressed Hermione into a small crevice, hiding them both from view. Ginny screamed, and a Death Eater’s jet of red light hit her squarely in the face, knocking her unconscious. Neville, wandless, desperately tried to hide from the Death Eaters, only to be knocked down by a swift kick. He slumped to the floor motionless. 

Hermione bit back a growl, and fought desperately against Fleur’s back, trying her hardest to escape.

“Wait, Hermione.” Fleur hissed. Harry begun to run back to the dais room with the sunken floor, the prophecy held high above his head. Death Eaters, satisfied that the others were unconscious, took after him, trying their best to incapacitate him without harming the orb. “Now!” Fleur burst from their hiding spot, and together, they brandished their wands until every Death Eater who’d been late to pass through the door had fallen. “Stay hidden. They don’t need to know we’re here,” Fleur whispered as they ran to join Harry, their steps silent against the stone floor. Although it went against every grain in Hermione’s body, she nodded with clenched teeth. They took positions on their stomachs several feet away from the door, looking down where the dais stood, watching, waiting.

“—Let the others go, and I’ll give it to you!” Harry bellowed, holding the orb higher. They could barely see him, lest chance a Death Eater notice their presence, listening closely.

“You’re in no position to bargain, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, his face flushed with vicious pleasure. “You see, there are ten of us and only one of you… or hasn’t Dumbledore taught you how to count?”

Slowly, they crept forward, pressing their bodies against the stone floor, disregarding dirt and dust. Harry had run all the way down the benches, leaving them hidden from the view of those below. Without so much as a warning, Neville flew down into the pit of the room past the two witches, screaming, “He’s dot alone! He’s still god be!” the Gryffindor held Ginny’s wand, and scrambled down the stone benches to take a place at Harry’s side.

“You mustn’t move, Hermione.” Fleur hissed in her ear. “Other Order members will be here soon, very soon, but you must wait… no matter what happens.”

Hermione turned to look at her. Every muscle in her face was drawn, as if the words she’d spoken were not braced by her heart. Her eyes were hard cobalt, her jaw fully clenched. Her nostrils were flared, her pupils so fully dilated they nearly consumed the whole of her irises. Every tendon and sinew was pulled taunt, and she shook with the effort to remain still. She did not want to carry out the orders, much less deliver them, but if it meant Hermione’s protection, she would do whatever she must at any cost.

With a deep scowl, Hermione nodded and looked at Neville where he was desperately trying to Stun any one of the Death Eaters, but his speech was still terribly slurred from the blows he’d taken, rendering his attempts useless. Finally, one of the larger Death Eaters seized him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. While he struggled and kicked against his captor, several of the others laughed.

“Longbottom, is it?” Malfoy sneered. “Well, your grandmother is used to losing family members to our cause… your death will not come as a great shock…”

“Longbottom?” Bellatrix repeated, taking a curious step forward, a look of evil glee stretched across her face. “Why I have had the pleasure of meeting your parents, boy…”

“I DOE YOU HAB!” Neville bellowed, fighting so hard against the Death Eater’s grip, he shouted, “Someone Stun him!”

“No, no, no,” said Bellatrix. “No, let’s see how long Longbottom lasts before he cracks like his parents… unless Potter wants to give us the prophecy—”

“DON’D GIB ID DO DEM!” Neville roared, who seemed to be beside himself, kicking and writhing as Bellatrix drew nearer.

Bellatrix raised her wand. _“Crucio!”_

Neville screamed, and Hermione could not bear to watch. She buried her face in Fleur’s shoulder, biting the bare skin there. Fleur’s growl was low beside her ear, her body completely tense against Hermione’s. After several long moments, Neville’s screams had quieted, replaced by muffled sobbing. Hermione chanced a glance to the dais, and to her relief, could not see the fellow Gryffindor where he surely lay on the floor.

“That was just a taster!” cackled Bellatrix. “Now, Potter, either give us the prophecy or watch your little friend die the hard way!”

“No…” Hermione breathlessly whispered as Harry look down at his palm, as he began to outstretch his arm. There wasn’t any hope; there was no other choice.

And then, the door opened again. An enormous pillar of light shot through and split into five sectors. As it passed through the door, Fleur leaped off the edge of the tier, evaporating into a beam of light and followed the others. Hermione found herself being pulled with the Veela, somehow feeling her arms wrapped protectively around her even as they hurtled through the air and towards the floor. When they landed, Sirius, Lupin, Moody, Tonks, and Kingsley stood near them with their wands raised.

For a moment, the Death Eaters were stunned into silence. Then spells flew from every able wand-tip, incantations spilling from lips like well-rehearsed prayers. Hermione did not waste time in adding her own magic to the fight, blasting the walls of the room so that bits of rubble fell atop some unlucky Death Eaters, making them miraculously easy targets for the others.

Fleur ran to defend Harry and Neville, where they were trying to find cover from all the spells. One Death Eater managed to blindside Fleur, wrapping an arm about her neck. Without skipping a beat, Fleur hurled the larger wizard over her shoulder and slammed him to the floor, her strength obviously catching him off guard.

 _“Petrificus Totalus!”_ She bellowed, before making a circle with her wand before screaming _, “Wingardium Leviosa!”_ and threw him into the wall. He fell to the floor with a loud _thump,_ and remained still, blood trickling from his mouth. Another hooded figure had caught Harry, and he had not been so lucky to gracefully rid himself of the Death Eater, instead Neville had come to his rescue by stabbing his assailant in the eye with the tip of Ginny’s wand before Harry could Stun him completely. 

“Go, now!” Fleur commanded. “Get out!”

She leaped into the fray again, sending a shield charm to Hermione’s aid just as the lioness sent one to hers. She could not see when Sirius’s duel with another Death Eater prevented his escape, but she did feel the resonating blow of his spell deflecting a rather powerful one aimed at Sirius. Instinctively, she called back her previous training with her grandmother, the centaurs, and Kingsley himself, and controlled her momentum, using the robbery of balance to her advantage as her foot fell heavily upon the side of another Death Eater’s skull. She landed in a graceful crouch, a responding spell hitting the wall where her head had been a moment before. With another lunge, she swept the attacker’s feet out from under him with her ankle, springing up again to paralyze him.

Hermione did not have the same training as she did, but she did share the same instincts. Her body fell into a natural rhythm, and she stopped making decisions for it. She crouched when her body said _crouch,_ she struck when her body said _strike,_ and she was soon battling two Death Eaters on her own. She dropped into another crouch, and a spell intended for her stuck the second Death Eater, killing him instantly. She leaped up again, and Fleur sent another shield to protect her, absorbing the next spell and sending it back to the Death Eater.

A screech sounded from Neville, and Fleur chanced a glance to see his legs kicking uncontrollably under him, refusing to support his weight or heed his commands. A spell narrowly grazed the Veela’s arm, and as much as she might wish, she could not turn back to help him.

Another jet of red light ripped through the air, missing Sirius by inches, but Tonks toppled down from stone seat to stone seat, her form limp. Fleur screamed. With a series of quick spells and a powerful shield, she ran to her fallen comrade, and grasped her wrist hopefully. A pulse fluttered there, fast and scared, but the rhythm was strong enough to survive. She left the woman there, and screeched as though her friend had been killed, but knew very surely she would heal.

“Go, now!” Sirius bellowed, no doubt to Harry and Neville. Hermione, either unnoticed or so fierce in battle had not been commanded to leave, although every fiber of the Veela screamed she get to safety. She vaguely heard the sound of ripping fabric and the shattering of glass, and heard nearly every word the shadowy figure said. 

Suddenly, Neville began spewing another word excitedly. Albus Dumbledore joined the fray like an approaching thunderstorm. The Death Eaters nearest to him actually yelped and began to scurry away in fear, but he calmly raised his wand and carried them back, immobilizing them completely.

Only one couple was still battling, apparently unaware of the new arrival. Sirius ducked Bellatrix’s jet of red light, actually laughing at her. “Come on, you can do better than that!” he yelled his voice echoing around the cavernous room. A second jet of green light hit him squarely in the chest.

The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock. Harry bolted forward, nearly clotheslined by Fleur as she caught him.

It seemed to take ages from Sirius to fall, his body curved in a graceful arch before he sank through the ragged veil hanging in the stone archway.

Bellatrix let out a loud, triumphant scream of joy.

Harry fought, screamed, begged for Sirius to return. Every word Fleur uttered fell to deaf ears. Every explanation meant absolutely nothing.

“Harry, he’s gone,” Fleur murmured, keeping her arms tight around the young wizard. “There’s nothing we can do…”

“He’s only just gone through—”

“He cannot return!” Lupin whispered, standing before Harry. “Please, if you go through that veil after him, you’ll be gone, too…”

Within moments, the remaining fray picked up again. Spells whirled around Harry, but they no longer meant anything. He continued fighting against the Veela’s grasp, screaming his godfather’s name, demanding he come back, asking why he’d kept him waiting. Fleur felt reality fall upon his shoulders as they slumped under her arms. Lupin took Harry from her and led him away after his fighting had calmed to some degree. Hermione rushed to her, Kingsley resumed Sirius’s duel with Bellatrix, and Dumbledore had most of the other Death Eaters bound by some invisible force. The one Fleur had slammed into the wall remained unbound and motionless. Moody had rushed to Tonks, and set to reviving her.

Hermione and Fleur lingered near Lupin, giving Harry a berth a space, but close enough to catch him if he decided he would run back to the dais.

“Where are the others?” Lupin asked after he’d lifted the spell cast on Neville’s legs.

“They’re all back there,” Fleur said, pointing back up to the door above them. “Ron was attacked by a brain, and a nasty spell so he’s rather loopy, Luna stayed behind to watch him, and Ginny has a half-healed broken ankle and she’s uncon—”

A loud bang sounded from behind them, Fleur instantly moved in front of Hermione, her arms held out. Kingsley released a bellow of pain, and hit the ground. Bellatrix cackled and turned tail, leaping from bench to bench, desperate to get to the door. Dumbledore whipped around and sent a spell at her, but she deflected it. She was halfway up the steps when Harry bolted in pursuit.

“Harry—no!” Lupin cried.

“SHE KILLED SIRIUS! SHE KILLED HIM—I’LL KILL HER!” And he was off, following in fast pursuit. Fleur cast a look at Lupin and then Hermione.

“Fleur—”

“Take me with you.” Hermione bit. Her eyes were fierce, her voice shook with a tremor that rocked her body.

“Neither of you need to go!” Lupin insisted holding his arms out. “She’s dangerous, and you’re all too young to go after her!”

Fleur’s eyes narrowed. She looked back at Hermione to see an inferno blazing in her glare, her teeth bared slightly. Her hands were curved as though they were talons. She looked back to Lupin. “We’re Veela.”

Without another word, Fleur evaporated into light, and followed the path Harry had taken, Hermione clutched in her arms as they flew over the floors. The room with the doors was spinning when they arrived, Harry was absent, as well as Hermione’s fiery crosses. They touched down and solidified again, looking around at the identical doors.

“Where’s the bloody exit?” Hermione thundered. A door opened as she spoke. Without time to think, Fleur took off again, sprinting into the lift at the furthest wall where the open door led, and slammed the button marked Atrium. The lift jangled and banged on its way back up, the noise loud and echoing in their ears. When the grills slid apart to admit them, the Fountain of Magical Brethren was in pieces; the wizard headless, the centaur had one arm left, and goblin had one ear.

Bellatrix sent another curse at Harry, and Fleur did not hesitate to take her alternate form again, this time without Hermione. She slammed into the Death Eater, carrying her solid body into the wall at her back just as her lips formed the first half of the Cruciatus Curse. The Veela carried her upwards, a streak of blood following her ascent. Instead of a pillar of light, Bellatrix melted into smoke, freeing herself from Fleur more than halfway up the Atrium wall.

Fleur solidified again beside Hermione, crouched, snarling lowly. If she wasn’t fierce before, she was terrifying now, peaking the limits of the quarter-Veela in terms of transformation. Her skin had paled to an alarming degree, though heat rolled off her. Her eyes were locked on Bellatrix, her teeth bared to the fullest extent. She no longer had nails, but talons curved dangerously, her wand held tightly in her fingers. Every muscle moved to portray her strength, her frame no longer light and lean, but thick and strong. Her voice carried in a loud, low drone as she growled, echoing off the walls of the room.

“Aha! The poor little half-breed come to save little baby Potter?” Bellatrix sneered, blood trickling down her temple and cheek, matting her hair. “What if I kill her mate, hm? What happens to the mysterious Veela then, since no one knows?”

Fleur nearly roared, but Harry beat her to summoning a hex. The Cruciatus Curse struck the Death Eater, bringing her to her knees as she screamed. She quickly leaped back up, glaring at Harry.

“Never used an Unforgivable Cruse, have you, boy?” she yelled. “You need to _mean_ them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain—to enjoy it—righteous anger won’t hurt me for long—shall I show you how it’s done?”

She lifted her wand, and Hermione answered with a lightening-speed flick of her wrist, an incantation exploding from her mouth. Harry dove for cover behind the fountain, but the two females were left out in the open. The deflected curse rebounded from the wall, showering sparks on the four of them.

“You cannot win against me!” she cried, pointing her wand at the others. Hermione rolled her head and shoulders, a message easily interpreted by Fleur. The Veela side-stepped away from the lioness, her wand brandished dangerously. Hermione followed, and slowly they began inching towards Harry. Bellatrix sent a series of hexes at them to halt their progress, but each of them were deflected by any one of the other three wands.

“Perhaps we can arrange something,” she sneered, panting behind a shield spell. “If you, Potter, roll the prophecy to me, then perhaps I’ll let you live. Even the filthy little half-breed.” Fleur’s wand sent a flash of light, striking her as if it were a whip. She screeched loudly, her knees buckling under her but somehow she kept her balance.

“Well, you’ll have to kill me then!” Harry thundered, pressing a hand painfully to his scar as he spoke. “And he knows! Your dear old mate Voldemort knows it’s gone! He’s not going to be too happy with you, is he?”

For the first time, genuine fear flashed in Bellatrix’s eyes. “What? What do you mean?”

Fleur lifted her voice angrily, her teeth flashing as she spoke. “It smashed while he was trying to get Neville up the steps! What do you think Voldemort will say about that?”

“You dare speak his name, bloody half-breed!”

Again, Fleur sent the whip striking through her defenses, this time bringing her to the floor as her shield charm shattered under the power of Fleur’s spell. “FOR THE LAST TIME, I’M QUARTER!” By now, the two females had reached Harry, who’d actually met them in the middle, a wall of the Atrium at their backs protectively. “But it’s true! The prophecy’s gone! And no one was close enough to hear.” She growled.

She glanced between the Veela and the lion, unsure of herself. “LIARS!” She finally cried. “YOU’VE GOT IT POTTER, AND YOU WILL GIVE IT TO ME— _ACCIO PROPHECY!”_ Harry laughed and held out his free hand. Nothing responded to Bellatrix’s summons.

“Nothing there!” he laughed. “It smashed and no one heard—”

“No!” she screamed. “It isn’t true, you’re lying—MASTER, I TRIED, I TRIED—DO NOT PUNISH ME—”

“Don’t waste your breath!” Harry yelled, his eyes watering against the pain in his head. “He can’t hear you from here!”

“Can’t I, Potter?” asked a high, cold voice.

Fleur kept her eyes deliberately trained on Bellatrix, but Hermione’s gasp confirmed the voice’s master. From the corner of her eye, she chanced a glance. Tall, thin, and black-hooded, a terrible snakelike face leered at them. Scarlet eyes held slit pupils, much more unearthly than Fleur’s own. Lord Voldemort moved with grace, silence, and lethal intentions, his wand at the ready.

Fleur pulled her teeth back further, a growl rumbling in her chest.

“I thought I smelled something rotten.” He sneered, looking between Veela and lioness. “A quarter-breed Veela and her Mudblood. Pity Crouch didn’t complete his mission and kill you, but I suppose it will be more fun for me anyway… Veela do live if their mates die, if I understand correctly?” Hermione joined Fleur’s snarl, acting purely on instinct as her intellect was too terrified to come up with a logical thought process. Silently she thanked the gods of the Veelas well-guarded secret, and tucked herself closer to Fleur. She held her ground, unmoving even as he drifted nearer. “I see I do… but no matter, that fun will wait for now.” His eyes moved to lock on Harry. “So you smashed my prophecy? No, Bella, he is not lying…I see the truth looking at me from within his worthless mind… Months of preparation, months of effort… and my Death Eaters have let Harry Potter thwart me again…”

“Master, I am sorry, I knew not, I was fighting the Animagus Black!” sobbed Bellatrix, flinging herself down at Voldemort’s feet as he paced slowly nearer. “Master, you should know—”

 “Be quiet, Bella,” he whispered dangerously. “I shall deal with you in a moment. Do you think I have entered the Ministry of Magic to hear your sniveling apologies?”

“But Master—he is here—he is below—”

Voldemort paid no attention.

“I have nothing more to say to you, Potter. You have irked me too often, for far too long. You’ll be seeing your friends soon, if that’s any consolation. I hope it’s not. _AVADA KEDAVRA!”_

Fleur and Hermione’s wands were ready with their strongest defensive spells, but they were not needed. The headless golden wizard and the centaur sprang to life from the fountain, and threw themselves before the streak of green light. The wizard absorbed the single jet aimed for Harry while the centaur stood ready before the females.

“What—?!” Voldemort bellowed, turning to glance behind him. Albus Dumbledore strode forward, his wand raised high. He gave another wave of his wand and the golden witch chased after Bellatrix, and pinned her to the floor after a short pursuit; the goblin and house-elf scuttled along the walls by the fireplaces and out of Fleur’s sight. Voldemort bore his teeth and sent another curse at Dumbledore; again, the green light was deflected almost easily.

The golden wizard thrust Harry, Hermione and Fleur backwards to the wall, keeping them as safe as possible. The centaur galloped off towards Voldemort as the two witches were presumed safe with the wizard. With a twist of his body, Voldemort disappeared from view just as the centaur reached him, and reappeared beside the pool of water left in the statue-less fountain. Dumbledore began to circle Voldemort, coming nearer to the three. Fleur felt a prodding at the edges of her mind, and presently, a voice resonated there.

_Do not attack._

At her confused expression, Dumbledore nodded subtly, his pale blue eyes locked on her own for a fraction of a moment.

“No,” she whispered, lowering Hermione and Harry’s hands. “Not yet,”

“Are you mad?” Hermione hissed at her, wrenching out of her grasp.

“No, Dumbledore doesn’t want us to do anything, at least not yet.” With her own wand, she built a strong defense, invisible to the eye but so solid one could touch it with their fingertips.

“It was foolish of you to come here tonight, Tom,” said Dumbledore calmly. “The Aurors are on their way—”

“By which time I shall be gone, and you dead!” spat Voldemort. He sent another killing curse at Dumbledore, but missed by inches, and the security desk went up in flames.

The ancient wizard flicked his own wand in response. The force of the spell that emanated from it was such that the three, though shielded by their guard as well as Fleur’s defenses, felt it pass. Their hair stood on end, bristling dangerously. Voldemort was forced to conjure a shining silver shield from thin air to deflect it, and even as the spell hit, causing no visible damage whatsoever, a deep, gonglike note reverberated from it on impact.

“You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore?” Voldemort called over his shield.

“We both know there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom,” Dumbledore returned softly. He wasn’t even guarded by a shield as he walked forward. “Indeed, your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness—”

Another jet of green light flew from behind Voldemort’s shield. The one-armed centaur galloped and leaped, taking the hit just before it hit Dumbledore. The centaur shattered into a hundred pieces, but before a single sliver could hit the floor, Dumbledore had drawn back his wand and waved it just as Fleur had, as though he were brandishing a whip. A long, thin flame reached out to Voldemort, wrapping his body and shield alike in the coil of flame. For a moment, it seemed Dumbledore had won, but then the fiery rope became a serpent, which relinquished its hold upon Voldemort at once and turned, hissing loudly, to face Dumbledore.

Voldemort had vanished. The snake reared from the floor, ready to strike—

And then a small burst of flame above Dumbledore caught Fleur’s eye for a moment. It soon disappeared, and her attention was stolen as Voldemort reappeared, standing on the plinth in the middle of the fountain. He raised his wand at Dumbledore’s exposed back, and Hermione’s wand struck out with blinding speed. Her curse hit the wizard just as a streak of green took flight from his wand. Voldemort bellowed, his back arching forward as paralysis fought to bring him to the floor. Bellatrix screamed, and sent a hex at her. The golden wizard extended a hand and threw it back.

The green light was still airborne. It still flew on a trained path to Dumbledore. The snake bore its fangs and struck. Fawkes dived from the roof of the Atrium, opening his beak wide, and swallowed the curse whole. He burst into flame and fell to the floor, small, wrinkled, and flightless. Dumbledore’s wand lifted again, and just before the snake struck, it evaporated into a wisp of dark smoke. With his free hand, he encompassed Voldemort in the water from the pool, rising around him like a cocoon of molten glass.

For a few seconds Voldemort was visible only as a dark, rippling, faceless figure, shimmering and indistinct upon the plinth, clearly struggling to throw off the suffocating mass—

Then he was gone, and the water fell with a crash back into the pool, slopping over the sides and drenching the polished floors. Sure it was over, sure Voldemort decided to flee, Harry began inching away from the wall. Fleur grabbed his arm, forcing him back, just as Dumbledore bellowed, “Stay where you are!”

For the first time, Dumbledore sounded afraid as he spoke, his eyes searching the giant room. Silence took reign, broken only by Bellatrix’s sobbing where she was still trapped beneath her statue, and the tiny baby Fawkes croaking feebly on the floor—

Then Harry’s scar burst open. He fell forward, screaming collapsing in on himself. Dumbledore rushed over, and Fleur killed her defenses, keeping a close eye on Bellatrix. Harry was gone; far from the hall and locked in the coils of a creature with red eyes, so tightly bound he could not tell where his body ended and where the creature began. He thrashed, desperate to rid himself of the invisible, suffocating mass.

Then the creature spoke. When it did, it used Harry’s jaw and Harry’s breath, but it did not use his voice. The voice rasped out of Harry’s mouth, cold, empty, a hiss between teeth.

 _“Kill me now, Dumbledore… if death is nothing, kill the boy…”_ Harry thrashed again, writhing against the intruder, trying to take his voice back and beg Dumbledore to kill him. Or Fleur, perhaps. She might have mercy and end it for him… Anything was better than the pain coursing through him; he no longer cared what method was used to kill him so long as he could escape the pain. So long as he could see Sirius again…

With that thought, emotion filled his heart, and the coils fell away. He could see again, unsure as to when he’d lost the ability in the first place. Fleur was holding his head in her lap, Hermione, his hands. Both faces were etched in worry, Veela features still present, but no longer shown with anger or fear. Dumbledore knelt low beside Harry, taking his face into his hands as he forced the lion to meet his eyes.

“Are you all right, Harry?” he asked softly as the boy’s eyes finally came to focus.

“Yeah,” Harry managed, although he was trembling violently under their worried gazes. “Yeah, I’m—where’s Voldemort?” he asked, looking around. “And—who are all these people?”

Fleur looked away from him. Sure enough, green flames were bursting from the fireplaces, witches and wizards emerging from them with awed expressions. The statues of the goblin and house-elf led a stunned-looking Cornelius Fudge forward, still clad in nightclothes.

“He was there!” shouted a scarlet-robed man with a ponytail. Both Fleur and Hermione recoiled away from the thunderous noise he produced, baring their teeth again.

“I think the two of you should return to Lupin and the others, yes?” Dumbledore said quietly.

Hermione looked back at Harry and shook her head.

“No need to worry, Miss Granger, the danger’s gone for now,” he patted her hand gently. “You’re needed elsewhere at the moment, both of you. I’ll handle things from here.”

Fleur took Hermione’s hand in her own and rose from the floor while Dumbledore helped Harry up. The young wizard nodded to her, and she turned, taking long strides back to the room with the dais. Thankfully, no one questioned them as they went back, at a much slower pace than before. When they found the correct room, Fleur lifted Ron onto her shoulders while Hermione took up Ginny’s limp form. Luna followed them as they made the trek back to the dais room, where Kingsley, Moody, and Lupin were casting spells to heal the others and otherwise keep the Death Eaters detained.

When they arrived, Fleur carefully set the still-giggling Ron down on a step, who was instantly attended to by Moody. Fleur noticed with a start that Tonks was absent.

“She’s at St. Mungo’s,” Moody grunted. “Lupin took her a few moments ago. She’ll spend a bit of time there, but she’ll make a full recovery. No need to worry, Veela.”

Hermione herself revived Ginny, and Fleur continued correcting the break in her ankle, her experience from Gringotts healed the wound in a few minutes. Ginny insisted that she walk and do what she could for the others, against Fleur’s gentle instruction to stay off it and ice it as soon as possible.

The Gryffindor, for all her stubborn nature, would not listen, and limped over to Neville, closing his wounds with Hermione. Aurors poured in about a quarter-hour later, and set to taking the Death Eaters away to Azkaban to await trial. Other Ministry officials joined as well, asking redundant questions and one even had the audacity to comment on Umbridge’s superior standing. Hermione nearly took his head off, but Fleur held her back, her arms preventing any possibility of felony charges for assault.

Dumbledore rejoined them after a time, his eyes tired. Absently, he lifted a broken stone, and murmured a charm. “You all need to return to Hogwarts,” he said softly, looking between Neville, Luna, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione. “Harry is already there, but I fear you won’t see him until tomorrow. Hogwarts is safe; you’ve all done very well.” He held the stone out to Fleur. “I think it’s best if you accompany them, Fleur.” he added.

The Veela nodded, and took the stone. Each of the other students grasped it as well and looked at their headmaster. With another flick of his wand, he counted down from three, and they felt the Portkey’s trademark pull behind their navels.


	21. The Second War

_He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Returns_

_In a brief statement Friday night, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned to this country and is active once more._

_“It is with great regret that I must confirm that the wizard styling himself Lord—well, you know who I mean—is alive and among us again,” said Fudge, looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters. “It is with almost equal regret that we report the mass revolt of the dementors of Azkaban, who have shown themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry’s employ. We believe that the dementors are currently taking direction from Lord—Thingy._

_“We urge the magical population to remain vigilant. The Ministry is currently publishing guides to elementary home and personal defense that will be delivered free to all Wizarding homes within the coming month.”_

_The Minister’s statement was met with dismay and alarm from the Wizarding community, which as recently as last Wednesday was receiving Ministry assurances that there was no truth whatsoever in these persistent rumors that You-Know-Who is operating among us once more. Details of the events that led to the Ministry turn-around are still hazy, though it is believed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and a select band of followers (known as Death Eaters) gained entry to the Ministry of Magic itself on Thursday evening._

_Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, reinstated member of the International Confederation of Wizards, and reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, was unavailable for comment last night. He has insisted for a year that You-Know-Who was not dead, as was widely hoped and believed, but recruiting followers once more for a fresh attempt to seize power. Meanwhile, the Boy Who Lived—”_

“There you are, Harry, I knew they drag you into it somehow,” Hermione said, peering at him over the top of her newspaper. They were gathered in the hospital wing, clustered around two beds. Harry was seated at the end of Ron’s bed and they were both listening to Hermione read the front page of _Sunday Prophet._ The lioness had sustained more injuries than originally thought, with a few cracked ribs and the possibility of concussion. Despite Fleur’s spell and sacrifice, the Veela magic had not cured her completely, for it had not been asked, and she was currently on a ten-potion regime. She had improved greatly, and was completely bored of the hospital wing already.

Her Veela rested beside her, her injuries, if she’d ever sustained any, had already healed on their own accord. She cursed herself for not asking the sacrifice to heal the lioness, but was thankful it had returned her safely nonetheless.

Ginny was with them as well, her ankle strengthened by Pomfrey after she went against Fleur’s instruction to sit still, and curled at the foot of Hermione’s bed. Luna had joined them for a visit with Neville, the latest edition of _The Quibbler_ in hand and upside down. Neville had been treated and returned to normal with a few swishes of Moody’s wand, in no need of Pomfrey’s attention.

“He’s ‘the Boy Who Lived’ again now, though, isn’t he?” Ron said darkly. “Not such a show-off maniac anymore, eh?” He helped himself to a handful of Chocolate Frogs sent by Fred and George, throwing a few to Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and Neville. Ron bore deep welts on his arms from the brain’s tentacles, but was improving quickly as well.

“Yes, they’re very complimentary about you now, Harry,” Fleur murmured, reading Hermione’s paper where the lioness rested against her chest in an upright position. _“‘A lone voice of truth… perceived as unbalanced, yet never wavered in his story… forced to bear ridicule and slander.’_ Hmm…”

“Yes, that is odd, they don’t acknowledge that they were the ones doing all the ridiculing and slandering.” Hermione bit. She glanced down the paper. “And it’s certainly given them plenty to write about.” She winced suddenly and put a hand to her ribs. Though the breaks had been mended, the bones and muscles were sore, screaming out in protest occasionally. Fleur carefully reached over the bedside table and picked up her third potion for the day to numb the pain. The lioness took it gratefully and turned her head away to swallow the potion down.

“Anyway, what’s happening in school?” Hermione asked, wiping her mouth and biting into a piece of chocolate to rid herself of the taste.

“Well, Flitwick’s got rid of Fred and George’s swamp,” Ginny piped up. “Did it in about three seconds. But he left a patch under the window and roped it off—”

“Why?” Ron asked.

“Oh, he just says it was a really good bit of magic,” said Ginny, shrugging.

“Seems like a monument to Fred and George,” Harry said quietly.

“So has all the trouble stopped now that Dumbledore’s back?”

“Yes,” Neville answered softly. “Everything’s settled right back down again.”

“I bet Filch is happy about that, isn’t he?”

“Not at all,” Ginny returned. “Keeps saying Umbridge was the best thing that ever happened to Hogwarts…”

Seven pairs of eyes looked around. Professor Umbridge was lying in a bed opposite them, gazing up at the ceiling. Dumbledore had strode alone into the forest to rescue her form the centaurs. How he had done it—how he had emerged from the trees supporting Umbridge without so much as a scratch on him—no one knew, and Umbridge wasn’t telling. Since she’d returned to the castle, she had not, as far as any of them knew, uttered a single word. Nobody really knew what was wrong with her either. Her usually neat mousy hair was very untidy and there were bits of twig and leaf stuck in it, but otherwise she seemed unscathed.

“Madame Pomfrey says it’s shock,” Fleur said, not bothering to lower her voice.

“Sulking, more like.” Ginny added.

“Yeah, but she shows signs of life if you do this,” said Ron, who began making soft clip-clopping noises with his tongue. Umbridge sat bolt upright, looking wildly around.

“Anything wrong, Professor?” Pomfrey called.

Ron ceased making the noise, and wordlessly, she settled again. The seven bit back their chuckles, and another question bubbled to the surface.

“Speaking of centaurs, who’s Divination teacher now? Is Firenze staying?” Hermione asked.

“He’s got to,” said Harry. “The other centaurs won’t take him back, will they?”

“Looks like he and Trelawney are both going to teach,” Fleur murmured.

“Bet Dumbledore wishes he could’ve got rid of Trelawney for good,” Ron said, munching on his fourteenth frog. “Mind you, the whole subject’s useless if you ask me, Firenze isn’t a lot better…”

“How can you say that?” Hermione demanded. “After we’ve just found out that there are real prophecies?”

Harry’s stomach turned over and his heart stuttered. He hadn’t yet spoken to anyone of his chat with Dumbledore after they’d returned to Hogwarts, and he was sure that the present moment wasn’t the right time. He chanced a glance at Fleur. Her arm was wrapped around Hermione protectively, watching the conversation unfold. Undoubtedly, she knew something had transpired, for she met his gaze briefly and nodded with a small, reassuring smile. Neither Fleur nor Hermione had asked him anything, and gratefully so. But how does one tell their best friends and comrades that, in the end, he must either kill or be killed?

“Where are you going?” Ron asked suddenly as Harry stood.

“Er—Hagrid’s,” Harry replied quickly. “He just got back, you know, I promised I’d go down and see him, tell him how you two are…”

“Oh all right then,” Ron returned grumpily, looking out the hospital window at the bright patch of blue sky beyond. “Wish we could come…”

Hermione shifted in her bed, her expression irked as she was still deemed bed-ridden. “Say hello to him for us, and ask what’s happening about… about his little friend!”

Fleur watched the lion take his leave. She burrowed closer to Hermione, sighing against her. After a few moments, she kissed the girl lovingly, and excused herself for a moment, giving the excuse of needing to speak with Professor McGonagall. Hermione saw straight through her, but nodded nonetheless, offering a small smile.

Fleur walked the nearly empty halls alone, the occasional student she passed waved to her, or simply said hello, each of which was politely returned but with the firm air that conversation was not desired.

The Veela found Harry sitting alone at the bank of Black Lake. “May I sit?” She asked softly. He gave a small lift of his shoulder indifferently. She folded herself at his side and stared out at the water. Their voices never lifted. The silence was thick, heavy, but lighter than it would have been had they uttered a single word.

The air itself was not tense, but incredibly light, warm in the early summer. Harry was both offended by and grateful for the Veela’s presence, and for a time sat trying to decide which was stronger. After several long, silent minutes, Fleur offered her hand to Harry. He glanced up at her, his expression guarded, and did not grasp her offering.

“I heard the prophecy, Harry,” she said softly.

His eyes widened and he nearly made a move to leap from the ground, his legs tensed to run. She could catch him, he knew. But he also knew that she would not give chase. For all her fierce displays, she was incredibly gentle, tranquil. And that, more than anything, kept him grounded.

“I trust Dumbledore’s told you?” she asked, her voice carrying easily between them despite its gentle, soft timbre. Silently, he nodded. She sighed. “I did not hear it all, but I did hear enough. I’m not here to try to coerce you into talking about anything or to tell you right from wrong. I’m here as a friend, and to tell you it’s okay.”

“How?” Harry barked. His voice came louder and harsher than he intended, but he no longer had any damns to give. Fleur didn’t flinch. “How could it possibly be okay? Did you hear something Dumbledore didn’t? I either have to kill or _be killed._ On what planet is it _okay_ to justify murder with murder?”

“When you don’t have a choice, Harry.” She returned, her voice gentle, but her words were firm. Her hand was still being offered to him. “When you don’t have a choice and killing one person who’s done so much wrong to the world, to prevent any more death, any more destruction. How many families has he dismantled? You have felt his impact directly, and you are not the only one. How many mothers and fathers has he left childless? Neville’s grandmother is not alone. How many people have been heartbroken and left to wallow in once-pleasant memories of their lost beloveds? How many people regret that they hadn’t said ‘I love you’ just once more? He’s caused this wreckage once, and he’s doing it again. But there’s a new variable. You. There’s something inside of you that protects you from him. What it is, for all my study I cannot answer. But there’s something.”

Harry held his head in his hands.

“I’m terribly sorry this duty has fallen to you,” Fleur murmured. “But I offer you comradeship. I offer you assistance. I offer you a voice, a shoulder, a wand, a life. Anything you might need, I offer what I have.”

“What has Voldemort done to impact your family?” Harry asked softly, tear tracks running the length of his cheeks. He looked up to see Fleur’s eyes were past their brims, diamond tears left her bloodshot eyes in pursuit of freedom.

“My family suffered losses a long time ago, before I came into the world. I have lost nothing yet. But I have more to lose now,” she returned. “I have worlds to lose now. I ache and I weep for those who know that pain, and I swear I will do all I can to keep her from it. And that oath starts with my every offering to you.”

“But, I have to _kill,_ Fleur… I know what he’s done, I know what he could do, but he was human once, too.” He wiped his cheeks irritably with an enormous sigh.

“He has traded humanity for something he deems as superior. He doesn’t wish to be human. He has no wish to admit he fears death, and certainly no desire to meet it.” Fleur looked down at the hand she wasn’t offering Harry. “If it is any consolation, I fear there will be several hands bloodied with this war, not just your own.”

“Do you plan to kill?”

Fleur drew a deep breath in contemplation, swiping at her face. “Harry, have you ever thought of spells or charms as living?”

“…I don’t understand.”

“Your Patronus, for example. Would you say it has life?”

“I suppose.”

“My Patronus killed a dementor last year in the Third Task. She consumed it. There was nothing left. Do you feel remorse for the dementor my Patronus killed?”   

“No, it intended to hurt you.”

“Indeed. And I, like my Patronus, will destroy anything that stands in the way of purging this world from the taint Voldemort has cursed it with. They kill for pleasure and power. I will kill for the protection of innocent people. I will kill to protect those I care about, those I love. I am not uncomfortable with this philosophy; I have accepted it. I do not like it, but I do not question it. I would kill anything that _tried_ to harm Hermione. Not due to the fact that my death will follow hers, but due to the fact that I love her, and I do not want her to hurt.” She trailed off softly, her arms aching for Hermione’s warm, solid weight within them.

“Why didn’t you kill the other night?”

Fleur drew a breath. “I’ve been asking myself the same question, though I think I might have killed one. Before he was revived, if they succeeded. I would never be so petty to use the curse, something so instantaneous is almost cowardly. There was so much going on… every other charm I cast was a shield for her. I didn’t think about killing. I thought about protecting. And, perhaps once, a kill was a consequence of the act of protecting. This is war, now. Hesitance will cease to follow me.”

Harry looked away from her. She would kill. She handled the reality as easily as she drew breath. She accepted the fact that her hands would be covered in the blood of others, if they were still unblemished. But would that be criminal, or martyrdom, giving up some of the good in oneself to protect it in others? Her face had already hardened, her eyes had grown colder. She did not like the idea of killing, much less pledging to do so in the name of innocent people. Innocence should never be a target. It should never need sacrifice, nor shield. But here it was, once again, pursued by a dark entity that wanted it destroyed.

She had already suffered from the acknowledgement of her part in the war. She already resented it. And her suffering would not end until the piper had been paid in full. Until the war was over. Until they could rebuild their world. Until prayers begging forgiveness had been offered to every god, until she lost count of how many therapy sessions she’d attended or how many nights she woke shaking, sweaty, and cold from nightmares of the past.

But love would be there, too. Love, the single-most important element would thrive, where, had there paradoxically been no death, it would not. She could curl against Hermione, burrowing into her chest or her shoulder, her voice chasing away the vivid memories. They could have children, if they wished. They could watch them grow, strong and healthy, unafraid of a snakelike face with Dark magic and red eyes, more unearthly than their Veela mother’s own.

Hermione would teach them the value of study and learning. Fleur would teach them the constellations, sneaking them outside past their bedtimes to study the sky. She’d use Hermione’s own teaching of study against her when she got caught, sheepishly inviting her to join them, doing her best to soften Hermione’s scowl with her own lop-sided grin. 

And that, Harry decided, was worth fighting for. Fleur openly offered everything she had for a chance at that future, that possibility. Harry took her hand in his own. Fleur squeezed his fingers gently.

“Don’t let your actions be for vengeance, Harry. Let them be for protection. People fuck up when they act for vengeance.”

He nodded, and the two fell into silence. “Thank you, Fleur,” he said quietly after a time.

She chuckled and gave his hand another squeeze. “If you need anything, Harry, say so. There’s no weakness in that. We’ll always stand by you.”

He nodded again. Fleur looked up to the sky and sighed heavily.

“I need to get back to the hospital wing, I’m sure Hermione’s hungry at this hour. Try to get some rest, mon ami. You’re not alone; you never will be.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. She rose to take her leave, but paused momentarily before she did so. “I want to thank you for protecting her when I couldn’t. That means everything to me.”

Harry cracked a small smile. “It wasn’t a choice, Fleur. I love her, too.”

She smiled back at him, and strode to the Great Hall before returning to the hospital wing. Hermione asked how McGonagall was, and Fleur reported honestly for she had met her on the way from the Great Hall while Hermione ate far more than Fleur expected. Her metabolism had grown enormously, and was cleared to leave the hospital wing the next morning with explicit instructions to refrain from strenuous activity. Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed.

Fleur knew the warning signs, and braced herself to hogtie the lioness come daybreak, for the gleam in her eyes promised she would be running the Hogwarts grounds as soon as she left the infirmary. Sure enough, when Fleur returned to Hogwarts the next day after visiting Tonks, Hermione was sprawled out atop her blankets with a cold compress against her ribs.

Fleur sighed heavily. “You knew better,” she chided softly.

Hermione scoffed. “Please, it was barely a mile. Besides, this pain isn’t from the bruises, it’s from a nasty stitch I got. A few days and I’m already out of practice.”

“No,” Fleur returned, helping the lioness into a sitting position. “You’re dehydrated. You need rest and plenty of fluids and a slow introduction back into your regular routine.”

Hermione’s ear actually twitched in distaste. “I’m tired of resting.”

“I know, love.” Fleur murmured, smoothing a flyaway lock behind Hermione’s ear. “Just a little while longer, okay?” she kissed her forehead gently, smiling as Hermione wrapped her arms around the Veela. “All packed up?”

“Almost. Just a few random bits left to go, but for now, the feast’s starting.”

Fleur nodded and Hermione stood, wincing slightly. “How’s Harry?”

“I haven’t talked to him much,” she admitted. “He doesn’t seem to want to talk about anything, and I’m not going to force him.” She peered up at Fleur in question. “Have you?”

“Not since yesterday.”

“And?”

“He’s… coming to terms with what Dumbledore told him. I just comforted him, gave him someone to talk to.”

Hermione nodded. “Yeah, you’re better at talking than I am,” she chuckled. “We’ll be fine. Everything will be okay.”

_Or I will die fighting…_ Fleur thought darkly, squeezing Hermione in her arms gently. She kissed her lips again, softly pressing against Hermione, allowing her fingers to plunge into the dark auburn tresses, memorizing the silk against her skin. She gently ran her tongue over Hermione’s lower lip, relishing as she felt her breasts rise against her as she drew a surprised breath, as her mouth opened to accept her. Fleur fought a smile, and slipped the tip of her tongue past the threshold of the brunette’s lips but only for a brief moment. Hermione growled softly, chasing Fleur. The blonde allowed her entrance, and reveled as she plunged deeper. Fleur chuckled, and pulled away after a few moments.

“Come, now, love. You’re running late for the feast.” The Veela chided gently as Hermione continued to plant kisses along her neck.

Hermione groaned and reluctantly untangled herself from Fleur’s arms. “I hate the voice of reason sometimes.” She grumbled, opening the door. Fleur followed her to the Great Hall and partook in the end-of-term festivities, keeping a careful eye on Harry throughout the proceedings.

It went smoothly enough, although she still didn’t know what all Harry and Dumbledore had spoken about, she was far more comfortable in blissful ignorance, content to know that if it involved herself, or her mission, she would be told promptly. She pulled out a well-worn poker face, smiling and chatting happily, but her mind was divided in several different sectors of processing. She kept one arm around Hermione’s waist and held her hand when they ran to the entrance hall to see Umbridge being chased away by Peeves, apparently taking George’s words to heart, who was alternating between hitting her over the head with a walking stick and sock full of chalk. The heads of houses only halfheartedly attempted to reign in their students, while McGonagall was smiling broadly, using one of Fleur’s shoulders for support in lieu of her walking stick.

 

The next morning was found to be dark, gray and dismal. The students poured out of Hogwarts, marching into Hogsmeade, and boarded the scarlet train waiting there. Fleur joined the three Gryffindors on their way, an Order meeting beckoning her return to London. She bought a ticket, and took turns battling against Harry and Ron in wizard’s chess. She joined in the car’s laughter as Malfoy attempted to hex Harry as he returned from the toilet and was met by surge of D.A. members so large, Fleur didn’t feel the slightest urge to rise. She did, however, help the others hoist the hexed, enormous slug forms of Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle to the luggage racks to ooze.

Harry seemed tense in his seat, obviously discontented to be returning to the Dursleys. Rather than attempt to provide comfort, which would inevitably bring the subject to the forefronts of everyone’s minds far sooner than necessary, she joked, played, entertained. The time would come soon enough.

When they got off the train and stepped through the magical barrier between platforms nine and ten, the Weasleys were waiting there, along with Hermione’s parents, both of which welcomed the Veela warmly before exchanging hugs with Harry and Ron. Behind them stood Moody, Lupin, and Tonks with her bubble-gum pink hair. Fleur excused herself from the others and launched herself at the other witch, hugging her tightly and inquiring of her health. The other witch seemed entirely detached, and only half-heartedly returned Fleur’s embrace. She was guilt-ridden, she realized, worn with sadness over Sirius’s death, and her inability to protect and defend her cousin.

Fleur offered her a small smile, and squeezed her again, much gentler this time. She coaxed her into conversation, anything to give her a distraction if only for a moment or two.

The twins’ business was booming, and they were quite happy with the way their shop was operating and the paychecks they were making, if their snazzy new clothes were any testament. The rather large group conversed happily, even Harry’s spirits lifting to some degree. And then Moody deflated them again with the simple statement of “Shall we?” and an inclination of his head and whirling magical eye. It was then that Harry noticed the Dursleys gathered behind them, huddled together as if afraid of being seen in such company. At once, the Order members approached the Muggles, forming a semi-circle around them although their approach was not aggressive.

“Hello!” Mr. Weasley said pleasantly. “Good afternoon. You might remember me, my name’s Author Weasley.” Harry chortled behind Fleur. She’d heard the story. Two years ago, Author had single-handedly demolished most of the Dursleys’ living room, and Harry would be incredibly surprised if Vernon had forgotten him. Memory proved strong, and the large man’s face purpled with rage, but Author acted as though nothing had changed.

“We thought we’d just have a few words with you about Harry,” he continued, still smiling.

“Yeah,” Moody growled. “About how he’s treated at your place.”

Vernon’s mustache seemed to bristle with indignation. “I am not aware that it is any of your business what goes on in my house—”

“I expect what you’re not aware of would fill several books, Dursley,” Moody snarled.

“Any way, that’s not the point,” Tonks interjected, whose pink hair seemed to offend Petunia so much so, she’d rather close her eyes than look at her.

“The point is,” Fleur spoke up, easily stealing the attention away as they looked at her. She seemed unfazed by their surprised expressions and Dudley’s drooling, despite how long it had been since someone drooled over her. The adults seemed to sense danger, and began to eye her curiously. Hermione slipped her hand into the Veela’s, glaring at Dudley, every inch of her demeanor screaming _mine_ as she kept the space between her body and Fleur’s at a minimum. The male seemed to sense her own thrall, and tore his eyes away from the blonde to glance worriedly at the lioness. She kept her glare trained on him until he locked his gaze on the floor. “If we find out you’ve been horrible to Harry—”

“—and make no mistake, we’ll hear about it,” added Lupin pleasantly.

“Yes,” Mr. Weasley chimed in. “Even if you won’t let him use the fellytone—”

“Yeah, if we get any hint that Potter’s been mistreated in any way, you’ll have us to answer to.” said Moody.

“Are you threatening me, sir?” Vernon said loud enough to attract the attention of passersby. He swelled up and puffed his chest out, though to the people around him, his display was hardly frightening.

“Yes, I am,” said Moody, seeming to be quite pleased than Vernon had grasped the fact so quickly.

“And do I look like the kind of man who can be intimidated?” he barked in return, glancing between the Order members.

Fleur bared her teeth in what was the in-between of a snarl and a smile. Her eyes bore the Veela’s trademark pupils, as if to taunt them. The large man looked at the Veela, stunned, and back at Moody where he’d upturned his bowler hat to reveal the deep scars and magical blue eye.

“Well…” said Moody, allowing him a few minutes of flabbergasted study after he’d leaped back in horror.

“Yes, I for one, must say you do, Dursley.” Fleur returned softly, politely, acid lining her words. Vernon turned to her again, and she smiled serenely, her canines barely human although the current pair and not yet been exchanged. The man before her did not reply.

Moody turned away from Vernon to survey Harry. “So, Potter… give us a shout if you need us. If we don’t hear from you for three days in a row, we’ll send someone along, probably either myself or Miss Delacour if available.” The Dursleys gave obvious signs of their undesired presence, huddling closer to one another.

“I’ll make sure I’m available.” Fleur said softly, with a taunting lift of her brows.

“’Bye, then, Potter,” Moody said, grasping Harry’s shoulder with one gnarled hand.

“Take care, Harry,” said Lupin quietly. “Keep in touch.”

“We’ll have you away from there as soon as we can,” Mrs. Weasley promised, hugging him again.

“See you soon, mate,” said Ron anxiously, shaking Harry’s hand.

“Really soon, Harry,” Hermione promised earnestly while she hugged him. “We promise.” She broke away from his embrace and Fleur took her turn.

She met his eyes silently, studying the emerald flecks buried in his irises. “Let’s make use of my parent’s beach this summer, hm? Far too short a time last year. You’re welcome there anytime, and you’re welcome to my own home as well.” She gripped him in her arms. “Godspeed, mon ami.”

Harry only nodded as she pulled away. There was so much he yearned to say to all of them, but could not speak the language necessary. Instead, he smiled, truly, genuinely, at them all and raised a hand in farewell as he turned and led the way out of the station.

Fleur watched him go. She prayed for him. Had she not been surrounded by non-Veelas, she probably would have offered sacrifice. But a prayer would have to suffice for the moment. Hermione’s hand squeezed her own, and she pulled the Veela to her family, a gentle kiss on her cheek immediately soothed her ruffled feathers. By the time she turned to face Jean and Thomas, her pupils had returned to normal, though her vision was quite sensitive.

“Well, would you like to join us?” Jean offered. “Every time she comes home, we always go out to the café and have a little lunch together. You’re more than welcome, Fleur.”

The Veela smiled and blushed before she agreed.

 

 

With full bellies and contented sighs, the four hardly spared a thought for pudding. The school year had been discussed, their dealings with the Ministry of Magic skipped out for the moment, due to the multitude of ears about, as well as Fleur’s growing career with Gringotts and the Order. Jean and Thomas’s own time since Christmas was talked about, as well as plans for the summer.

“And Hermione, you sure have sprung up! I thought the doctor said you were finished growing?” Her mother asked suddenly.

The lioness flushed darkly and glanced at Fleur.

“Yes, I noticed that too. Several inches taller than the last time we saw you, dear,” Her father chimed in. By now, Fleur’s blush had risen high on her cheeks as well.

“Um, yeah, I guess I wasn’t,” Hermione laughed, desperately trying to rid herself of the blush.

“That seems highly unlikely, but I am a tooth-doctor, not a general physician,” Jean laughed. Then she caught sight of Fleur’s blush. “Or is it… oh. _Oh._ I… I see…”

Hermione looked up guiltily. But Jean was smiling, actually shaking to keep from laughing. The lioness flushed further, and between herself and Fleur, she was sure they’d risen the temperature in the room by several degrees.

“That’s simply _fascinating._ ” She breathed, leaning her chin on her hand as she looked at Fleur.

“What? What’s fascinating?” Thomas asked, looking between the three females.

“Nothing, nothing, love,” she said, patting his arm with a smile. “Just seeing them so happy together, I’m so glad to see my little girl so happy,” she sighed, winking the eye Thomas couldn’t see.

Fleur nearly fell out of her chair. Well, this _certainly_ wasn’t how she’d foreseen this meeting going. Nor had she foreseen Jean’s incredible ability to see though any façade as she’d seen glimmer in her eyes before now proven to the extreme, let alone that she would be so calm about it. But that’s where Hermione had learned the philosophy of _it’s the most natural thing in the world._ At the present time, Fleur couldn’t be sure her father would feel the same way, but she’d take what she could get. Of course, she might be sleeping alone in her own house that night due to Jean’s incredible ability to see though bullshit as if it were crystal, but she’d take this reaction and that consequence over any other her mind had offered her thus far.

Fleur offered Jean a small, shy smile, pleased when it was returned. She very nearly paid her own bill, but a quick look in her wallet showed a complete lack of Muggle currency. She promised to pay them back, but it was waved away with a gentle hand, as if it were the most ridiculous theory Jean had ever heard as she covered the bill after a brief squabble with Thomas, insisting that it was her turn.

In the car ride to Hermione’s home, Fleur kept seeing Jean steal glances at them in the backseat from the rearview mirror. Each time, the expression in her eyes was not surprise or shame, but genuine, untainted happiness and love. It was refreshing, really. Almost like her own family, no need to hide or to be afraid or make up excuses.

Fleur found herself staring intently out the window after the first few miles had been put behind them. Her stomach had begun rolling slowly, but not due to motion sickness. Fog was rolling in, the clouds had condensed, shutting light out from the sun. The temperature seemed colder, not brisk as summer can be with a gust of wind, and not cold enough to imply summer’s late arrival, but the cold that chilled the marrow in the bone. It was the cold that brought with it dark tidings, shots of fear that mingled at the back of the brain, waiting to be processed, while happiness stole away the forefront, unwilling to share center-stage just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my lovelies, this is the end of Cadence of the Rain. Honestly, I can’t thank you all enough for the support and awesome feedback you've given me. I really appreciate it, and I hope you enjoyed reading as much I did writing. The third and final part to this (much longer than originally anticipated) tale will begin soon, although I may split it into two parts. I haven’t decided yet, but I do invite and implore you to see how I wrap up the last two books of our beloved series. As I stated earlier, I will be leaving in October, but I will not abandon you all. Far too much time and effort was put forth to simply walk away, not to mention the unexpected praise I’ve received and the friends I’ve made. Now, I’m going to repeat the advice that helped me put this tale into words and share it with you. If you have a story, let it out. Don’t be ashamed. Don’t hold it in. Let it go. Even if it’s a little one-shot, go for it. You never know, it could grow. This whole series, for example, originally started as a sexy one-shot. But then I got to thinking, ‘Man, there’s a lot I could do with this.’ So I did it. And nearly two hundred thousand words later, and going, we have this. It’s been a long time in the coming, and I was very nervous posting the first chapter of Dusk. I thought since it’s part of such a small fandom, it wouldn’t get half as much attention as it did. I thought my ideas might not be interpreted correctly, or that people wouldn’t care about it. How horribly wrong was I? Incredibly. So, please, follow the advice I did. Share your story if you have one. Be shameless in your smut and chokingly adorable in your fluff. Be ruthless in your tragedy and exuberant in your comedy. If a work of literature, fanfiction or otherwise, can bring me to my knees, I truly believe it is one of the most powerful forces to be harnessed by the human intellect. So do it. Make me cry. Make me laugh. Make me beg for another chapter. This is not the last time we’ll chat, but given the time frame, I felt it was important to encourage you now, since you’ll probably have some free time away from this story soon.   
> I hope to see you all very soon with the following sequel, Thy Kingdom Come. I cannot promise how much I’ll have posted before I leave, nor can I promise how long it’ll be when finished, but we’re in for the long run, yes? Oh, and don’t worry, more sexy times will follow. I know how you enjoy those.   
> With loads and heaps and bunches of love,   
> Regina Corda


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